


When Tomorrow Comes

by Chainofprospit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Death, M/M, post-death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chainofprospit/pseuds/Chainofprospit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras waited patiently for Grantaire to acclimate himself to waking, rubbing his temple and grimacing as his eyelids peeled open. A thin line of crimson, blood, had painted a stroke down from the corner of his dry lips. He looked otherwise the same, apart from the previously noted wounds to his front. His numbered three, and wider apart; though upon closer inspection Enjolras noticed a fourth blossoming of red staining his right shin, just beneath his knee. A leg wound was not fatal, but the other shots had surely penetrated his lungs and stomach; the highest probably shattering his collarbone. They could not have survived, thus the obvious conclusion was that they were both dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this occurs after Grantaire and Enjolras both die at the barricade, and is set in the afterlife, which I just made up. I don't know what else to say about this except that I wrote it all tonight and didn't go through or edit it so... sorry in advance?

Enjolras and Grantaire awoke holding hands. 

It was Enjolras who awoke first, in an eerie quiet, a complete silence penetrated neither by hollow wind nor tweeting birds. His eyelids, which had been somewhat glued shut with grime, sweat, and blood, took some effort to crack open - once they both were unsealed, his vision took a moment to settle into clear focus. Dust floated through the air, catching the light. Behind that, the familiar planks and pillars of the wine shop loomed over him. They were dirty, smudged with gunpowder and the splatters of injury. 

He looked to his right. There lay Grantaire, looking perfectly still. Dead? His eyes flicked to his chest - no, there was some faint lift there, subtle but there. He was bleeding, stained with crimson. His throat swallowed unconsciously. His gaze moved down to Grantaire’s left arm, which, thrown out, was entwined at the end with his own hand. His fingers, like his eyelids, took mild exertion to extricate from Grantaire’s, but he separated their sticky skin without too much difficulty, wiping his palm on the thigh of his trousers. He shifted, heaving his torso forward so that he might propel himself into a sitting position, knees splaying, half-up, other hand at his side for balance. 

Looking down at his chest, he, too, was wounded. In fact there were multiple tears in his jacket and vest. Though his clothing was mildly torn about regardless, he thought he could attribute at least four of the holes to apparent gunshots, maybe six. All centering in his chest. Was he dead? Having glanced all around the room now, he at last looked directly in front of him. There, brief yards away, stood a full line of infantrymen, rifles at the ready, all looking about three or four feet above his current position. He struggled to get his feet under him, attempting to stand. He had only managed to reach a half-balanced position when, with a loud CRACK! all dozen triggers were shot and sent as many bullets whistling through the air, inches from his temple. The path of the shots was curious in that it seemed to be happening particularly slowly. In fact, he could swear that he could make out every detail of the bullet as it passed him, as though it travelled through gelatin and not air. He stood fully, avoiding the slow propulsion of the ammo. Looked at the soldiers again, bewildered. They seemed to be staring directly at him, but when he cautiously stepped to his right, their gaze did not move. It remained fixed upon that same point; they did not see him at all. 

He looked down at Grantaire once more. The man seemed to be stirring. His brow was wrinkled, and the pointed pink tip of a tongue darted out to lick at his lips. He turned his jaw towards his right, brushing against his tight fist there, which clenched the corner of a dirty but still vivid red flag of the republic, unmounted, wrapped between his fingers. His other shoulder began to rise into a hunch, and he rolled onto his right side, then began to curl in a manner that forced his torso up. He looked just as he had when he had first awoken from his wine-sleep: dirty and as though he harbored a great headache. 

Enjolras waited patiently for Grantaire to acclimate himself to waking, rubbing his temple and grimacing as his eyelids peeled open. A thin line of crimson, blood, had painted a stroke down from the corner of his dry lips. He looked otherwise the same, apart from the previously noted wounds to his front. His numbered three, and wider apart; though upon closer inspection Enjolras noticed a fourth blossoming of red staining his right shin, just beneath his knee. A leg wound was not fatal, but the other shots had surely penetrated his lungs and stomach; the highest probably shattering his collarbone. They could not have survived, thus the obvious conclusion was that they were both dead. 

CRACK! 

The rifle fire went off again, and Enjolras ducked just in time. It was exactly the same as the first. The round of shots seemed to be set on loop, repeating every several moments. He leaned down and offered a hand to Grantaire, who seemed to still be focusing his vision. They’d best get out of fire, dead or not. He didn’t know what post-mortem wounds could do to a soul wherever they were. 

After heaving Grantaire up, he glanced around the room fully again. It was devoid of people or bodies, contrary to how he remembered it. It had been strewn with corpses when he was cornered, he knew. They had not been included for whatever reason. Grantaire, now standing next to him and fully awake, stared at the infantrymen with a sort of baffled horror. He looked between they and Enjolras, begging a question with his weathered eyes of cornflower-blue. “Are they - “ he stumbled. Enjolras blinked, waiting for a the other end of the query. 

“Are we...?” was what he tacked on instead, voice faint and shocked. 

Enjolras nodded. “Death,” he pronounced. “Of some sort.”

Grantaire stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment, seeming to scrutinize him up and down. At last, his shoulders fell in some kind of relief. 

“I see,” he breathed. “You too, then?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were an angel at first,” admitted Grantaire with a dry laugh and a run of his fingers through his hair. “Had me thrown off - that wouldn’t have made much sense for me.”

Enjolras felt his jaw twitch faintly. “Well, wherever you are, I am too,” he said stiffly. 

Grantaire’s eyes widened again, then barked out another laugh, which Enjolras found slightly inappropriate. “That’s right! Well...” (A chuckle.) “Welcome, friend, to whatever realm I now call my home.” He dipped into a mocking curtsy, arms lifted and wrists out in a grandiose gesture. 

Enjolras straightened his back, unamused. “Well, we’d best be looking for -”

CRACK! 

Enjolras pushed Grantaire out of the way first, but failed to get out of the path of the bullet himself - but Grantaire had leapt back in his way, hand outstretched to block it from penetrating his side. The bullet buried itself right through Grantaire’s palm and out the other side, too slow, looking unnatural. It had successfully diverted it from Enjolras, though, and he stood, breath startled out of him, staring at Grantaire’s hand. He looked back at his face, seeking a reaction. 

“Wow,” was Grantaire’s only word, his eyes equally fixed on his hand, which he turned over in fascination. The whole of penetration was bloody, but the flow had stopped what seemed like immediately, for there was neither splatter nor drip. He didn’t appear to be feeling pain, or was disguising it well - but then suddenly stumbled, with all the look of a stepstool falling over. Enjolras lunged over and caught him in his arms before he could hit the floor, helping steady him straight again. Grantaire’s smile this time was thin and false, his eyes crinkled as he looked at his leg. 

Enjolras gathered that while injuries may not cause pain here, their physical presence was still exact. 

“Whoops,” murmured Grantaire forlornly as Enjolras dragged him over to an empty chair. 

“Let’s not stand there again,” muttered Enjolras tersely, sitting him down and then setting about to acquire bandage and wood for a splint. It didn’t take excessively long to rummage makeshift supplies from amongst the rubble, and Grantaire tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling as Enjolras tightly bound his shin in his best approximation of a walking cast. It took several minutes to get it right - he caught himself wishing Joly was here - but after a few tries, he tied off the wrapping and stood back, satisfied for the moment. 

“You know I’m already dead, right?” joked Grantaire. 

“Yes, but you need to walk,” said Enjolras, not in the mood for jokes. 

“Why?” he mused, and Enjolras shot a sharp glance at him. He held up his hands defensively. “Just saying. Am I supposed to go anywhere? If this is just death now, methinks I could rather just stay here and drink wine forever.”

CRACK!

A glance back over his shoulder, then returning to Grantaire. “You’ll not,” said Enjolras firmly. “The first matter is to ascertain exactly where we are now, and whether the others are here too.”

A pained expression fleetingly overtook Grantaire’s face, but it disappeared just as quickly. 

“Well, you do that, I’ll stay here,” said he. 

Enjolras looked down, feeling a tightness in his throat and a disagreeableness on his tongue. “I’d... rather you joined me,” he said flatly, trying to keep any unkindness out of his tone. 

Grantaire’s expression was as flat now, looking at him with no identifiable response. 

“...” Enjolras sighed. “I would feel better accompanied. We don’t know anything about this place. Besides, you...” He frowned. 

Grantaire raised a brow.

“... You demonstrated... a truly courageous act, which I hold in the highest esteem, and I would be... obliged if our mutual company doesn’t part so soon.” His voice was softer than usual, low, and he hoped that Grantaire could sense his sincerity. 

He seemed to; or at least saw something which pleased him, for it was with a lighter smile and jaunty tone that he folded his arms and pronounced, “All you had to do is ask.”

Determined to stifle his pride, Enjolras stated truthfully, “I’d like to have your company. Please join me, if just to ascertain those two answers? I promise that afterwards, should you so choose, you may return to this place and drink all the wine you please for the rest of your days.” He offered a small smile. 

CRACK!

“Ah, very well,” consented Grantaire, with the faintly smug air of one who had been meaning to assent all along. “I’ll need some help getting up, though.”

“Of course,” said Enjolras, and he quickly flocked to his side to assist him. Grantaire was rather heavier than himself, built of stockier substance, but Enjolras had determination, a straight back, and good balance; he managed to hoist him with an arm over his shoulder and thusly, hand at his waist for support, walked him behind the line of soldiers and to the door, which he maneuvered open with the help of his boot. 

The outside was not what he had expected.

Where there had been the narrow street and a piled barricade, now lay but a few feet of cobblestone and a steep drop. He stepped up to the edge and looked down. The cliff went down at a perfect vertical angle, and at the bottom of it, about seven yards from the top, rushed a wide river. The opposite bank was featureless, landscape painted in a foggy, vague, smudged representation of the streets of Paris, just distinctive enough to be familiar, just generic enough to be unrecognizable. It did not look reachable. 

“Is that the Seine?” queried Grantaire, looking over his shoulder in a bemused manner. 

Enjolras take a second look. It did look like the Seine, though not the way he was used to seeing it. Apart from the strange arrangement of their surroundings, what looked like the previous formation of their barricade was floating piece by piece down the river. There flowed tables, trunks, chairs and flagpoles, all manner of furniture and belongings, bobbing along consistently. 

“I think that’s the barricade,” murmured Enjolras. 

“... death is queer place,” muttered Grantaire at his back. 

There again rose what Enjolras was realizing felt suspiciously like a reflexive contrariness, but he bit it down. Was he really so accustomed to disagreeing with everything that came out of Grantaire’s mouth, regardless of its relevance or accuracy? This was a queer place, indeed. 

He wondered how often he had snapped at the other thoughtlessly, and made up his mind to attempt to curb this compulsion in the afterlife. (Was that what this would be called?) He heard the muffled crack of guns from inside again. 

Suddenly he became aware of a lightness of his shoulder. Without his noticing, Grantaire had extracted himself from Enjolras’ support and lowered himself down to the edge of the drop. He was leaning over it curiously, sitting, legs both lame and sturdy dangling above the water. 

“What are you doing?” blurted Enjolras, attempting to drag him up again from the back of his collar, but his hand was swatted away. 

“Just looking,” Grantaire whined. “There’s a bed down there; it’s stuck.”

Enjolras followed his outstretched finger, and saw that he was right. In the corner, apparently snagged on some underwater debris, floated a set of wooden bedposts, mattress and all. He thought it was one of the beds they had commandeered for the injured; here, it seemed to be reassembled and now stagnant in water, as though it were waiting. 

Grantaire seemed to echo this thought. He shifted closer to the edge dangerously. “I bet that would hold us,” he said eagerly. 

Enjolras rounded on him with furious brow. “Grantaire, don’t be ridiculous. Your leg is broken, you cannot get down there. Nor is there any reason to think you ought to.”

“Well, there’s not exactly anyplace else to go,” he pointed out, and Enjolras had to curse his correctness. It was true. “Anyway,” Grantaire went on, precariously pushing himself up to standing again, “We could get down there. We’ve got that flag.”

“Flag?” 

“Yeah, the flag from inside.”

The image of it clenched in Grantaire’s fist reoccurred to Enjolras; then, something he had forgotten to remember, the last moments of the cynic’s life: he had held up the flag, proclaiming Vive la Republic. Something in him gave way in an uncomfortable manner. Grantaire had died for a republic he hadn’t believed in; the least Enjolras could do was humor his curiosity. 

“What about it?” he said.

“It’s like bedsheets, yeah? Tie ‘em together, escape from your second floor window to see your nonny?” He flashed a smirk his direction. “Oh right, I forgot you never had lady lovers. Imagine it’s for Patria then, yeah?” 

Enjolras frowned, but could picture to what his companion referred. He tried to visually compare the length of the flag to the height of their current standing. He wasn’t sure whether or not it would make it. 

He turned to glance back at the shop, then started. Again having escaped his eye, Grantaire had started limping without a second thought towards the door again. Enjolras threw out a hand to stop him. 

“For God’s sake, Grantaire,” he exclaimed, “Can you go a minute without furthering your injury? I’ll fetch the flag.”

Grantaire seemed sufficiently put back by this, though his expression was not negative. Shaking his head, Enjolras pushed back inside, pausing in time for another, full volume once more, CRACK! He went around the soldiers this time, dragging the huge red fabric from its place lying half-twisted next to the wall. Wrapping the end around and within his fist as had done Grantaire, he threw the trail of the cloth over his shoulder and around his waist to save it from getting further soiled. He walked back out to where Grantaire was waiting, leaning on his good leg. Upon seeing Enjolras, the former beamed with delight. Unaccustomed to this reaction, Enjolras nodded humbly, throwing the fabric off of himself to its full length, over the river to test its length. 

To his surprise, the dangling flag could very well, if held strongly, support a person down far enough that the resulting drop would be comparatively insignificant. He began to ponder the actual possibility of using the river for transport. What was it that Grantaire had just said? ‘It’s not like there’s anywhere else for us to go.’ 

He followed the river with his eyes pensively. It did not seem to have a visible edge. If this was death, where did that lead? Perhaps they were meant to follow it. If this was some Christian afterlife, then perhaps the river was his path to God and Heaven. Had people not spoken of tunnels before, or lights? Passages, of sort? Was this one of them?

He looked back the other way. Just muffled city skyline, with no apparent way to reach it. 

“Very well,” he said stoutly, making up his mind. “Give me your arms.”

“What?” Grantaire blinked. 

Enjolras was busy unknotting his own red sash, intending to use it as a sort of body noose to put around Grantaire. He glanced up at him once the extra length was free. 

“Your arms,” he repeated. “We can’t exactly drop you by your leg, now can we?”

Though he looked bewildered, Grantaire lifted his arms agreeably, and Enjolras looped the now fastened fabric around his torso and under his arms, tightening it the best he could without being overly injurious. Understanding now, Grantaire helped adjust the sitting of the sash for his own comfort. 

“You should probably sit at the edge,” recommended Enjolras. Grantaire lowered himself agreeably, though he did use Enjolras’ arm to steady his descent, balance still imperfect. He perched on the edge above the torrent, watching the river pass, square hands gripping Enjolras’ trouser legs. 

Enjolras was straightening out the length of the flag, twisting it where appropriate in order to strengthen it. He fastened his grip tightly at an appropriate height, tugging upwards to test that it would support a man’s weight. Grantaire quickly dropped his hands to the cliffbank, steadying himself. He in counter to Enjolras’ efforts assisted by also pushing himself, up and slightly out. After a few moments of precarious balance, he was supported by nothing but his own strained hands and Enjolras’ flag. 

“Ready?” said Enjolras.

Grantaire nodded shortly, failing to speak. 

Carefully, Enjolras moved his fists out over the water, Grantaire removing one hand, then another, a quick and short slip of about a foot as his weight dropped and settled completely in the stretching fabric. A strained noise escaped him, and he clutched onto the sash at his armpits and sternum. 

Grantaire was heavier than Enjolras had anticipated, but he was strong enough to hold him, and began to cautiously lower him, length by length, shifting grips one hand under the other so that the lowering occurred in a smooth manner. Something like an entire minute and a half of this precarious test of strength, wincing from Grantaire and strained neck muscles from huffing on Enjolras’ end, and at last his toes breached the water. 

“Get on that chair first,” gasped Enjolras, as the bed was on the opposite side of the river. 

Grantaire haphazardly kicked his feet, toe catching the leg of the mentioned chair and sweeping it underneath him. Enjolras lowered him until both of his feet were supported on the furniture, which was mostly submersed now but close enough to the edge of the bank that it was not swept away. 

“Okay,” heaved Enjolras, dropping the remainder of the flag in a great toss across the river. Fortunately the point they were at was narrower than it was further down, and the loop he had fashioned at his end landed barely across the closest post to Grantaire. Grantaire tugged at the cloth, and the loop secured. He pulled it harshly, and the chair beneath him toppled with a splash. He gasped loudly at the sudden submersion into the water, spluttering and throwing out an arm before he started horizontally climbing the flag length towards the bed, which was simultaneously being tugged towards him, almost freed but not quite. 

Enjolras watched him with nervous jaw, pacing unconsciously, wondering whether he should have allowed this. After some struggle, though, Grantaire successfully pulled himself to the edge of the bed, and threw his legs over it to drag himself on top. The edge dipped down but did not submerge completely. The shift of weight did, however, loosen the far post from whatever had been stoppering it, and the bed began to float freely down the river at an alarming pace. 

“Enjolras!” shouted Grantaire, waving at him from below, kneeling. “Jump!”

Swallowing thickly and realizing he may not have thought this thoroughly through, Enjolras stepped forward quickly and halted, hesitating. 

“Jump!” he shouted again.

The bed was quickly moving away from him. He would lose it if he did not act.

Taking a breath, Enjolras stepped a few paces back, then sprinted to the edge and off, flailing his limbs. There was a brief moment where he couldn’t see anything because he was falling too fast, and then it was an awkward clattering thump, a splash of water, and strong wet arms clasping his tightly.

“You okay?” yelled Grantaire. The river was louder once in it, but not that roaring; part of the tone likely was an effect of panic. 

“Yes,” responded Enjolras, equally loud. (Had he been panicked too?) “Yes,” he repeated in a strong but calmer tone. He clasped his hands to Grantaire’s forearms to balance himself, shifting to support himself on spread knees as the other man was, looking at the rushing river around them. The bed was still dipping and rocking, but seemed stable enough that it wouldn’t flip.

Carefully rearranging his legs to sit fully, Enjolras released Grantaire. He returned one hand to his knee to grip for balance, turning and using the other to drag in the now soaked red flag, gathering it in a sopping pile at the edge of the mattress. Grantaire watched him silently.

There passed about five minutes of settling, them both accustoming themselves to whatever position was both comfortable and balanced, and as the bed-boat turned a few times before maintaining a position. The widening river was also a quieting one, with less rocking for them, and further-spread debris. As Enjolras unbuttoned his vest, glancing also around at the gray landscape as they moved past it and away from the wine house, Grantaire reached out far enough to snag a long pole, bringing it over to his lap and occasionally using it to push away tables that threatened to interrupt their path, or to prod at the wall when they veered too close for comfort. 

In time, the building they had left behind was no longer within sight. It was only the gray stone of the walls on either side of them, and the grayish-blue water (only marred by the seemingly endless barricade debris; a barrel here, a dresser there). Enjolras leaned against the foot of the bed, one knee up, upon which his correlating arm rested; the other lay vaguely out to his side. Grantaire eventually settled into a horizontal position, lying down with his head on the farthest end by the opposing headboard. His hands were folded underneath his neck, lame leg stretched out and the other propped on top of it forming a triangle. 

Silence reigned between them. The first brief interruption was Enjolras: “Should we be expecting to stop at a certain place?”

Grantaire’s answer was frustratingly vague and equally practical. “Can’t know till we get there. I say rest up, ready our eyes for when we’ll need them. Wherever this goes, it can’t end for a while.”

Enjolras consented to admitting his right, and spent his time gazing out at the lack of scenery. Grantaire’s eyes closed quickly, and he appeared to doze off with envious speed. 

It was not long, though, before Enjolras allowed his lids to draw shut too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever have any questions about aspects of the story or the setting, I'm happy to answer them via comment or on my writing Tumblr, which is c-h-a-i-n-letters. I'm an e/R (and Les Mis in general) rookie, so forgive me if there's any fandom or fanon stuff I don't know.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras and Grantaire awoke with tangled limbs. 

It was Enjolras who awoke first, to the sound of a soft whistling, which tickled his ear until his skin insisted he return to consciousness. His eyes at first perceived only gray; with a moment, his vision sharpened and revealed the mottled wall yards from him, and the water lapping at his fingertips. The whistling was a soft breeze traversing the walls and river. Remembrance seeped into his awareness, and he glanced down at his own chest as if to reaffirm his own death. The scarlet stains were proof enough. He took the moment of calm to examine his torso with his fingers; with some prodding and inspection, he found that he had underestimated his injury. There were exactly eight bulletholes puncturing his chest. Some vague sense of pride accompanied this discovery. 

He looked over at Grantaire, who was still out solidly, and drooling. Enjolras shook his head with a wry half smile. His leg sought to stretch, and he realized that it was wrapped with Grantaire’s good ankle; their limbs crossed and inhibited one another, and he drew himself up to sitting again in order to carefully extract his own. He paused, his gaze resting on Grantaire’s awkwardly splinted right leg. It seemed, now, more cumbersome to be forced straight. Cautious against unbalancing them, Enjolras scooted over the mattress to lean by Grantaire’s knee, taking his calf in his lap. He began unwrapping the bandages, reclaiming the strip into a neat roll, until he could extricate the wood he had used to splint, then removing the rest. He tucked these items in the corner of the bed by the pile of red, then realized he possessed no extra bandages. A fruitless glance around at the floating debris surrounding them yielded no result; he returned his gaze to the bed-boat instead. He could tear his shirt into strips, but that didn’t seem like it would be particularly useful for such a length of limb. 

Momentarily he recalled his sash. Leaning back to seek the mess of red fabric behind him, he felt along the cloth until he found his original knot, still damp. With a little effort he extracted it from the rest, then shifted again between Grantaire’s legs to once again take his calf in his hands. 

It was about at this time, thus once again entangled, that Grantaire began to awaken with a groan. It was quicker than the last; only a moment passed before he was frowning with squinted eyes in Enjolras’ direction and mumbling in a raspy tone, “Whatterya doing?” 

“Rebandaging you,” said Enjolras, wrapping the red length around his bone neatly. It looked strangely bold in comparison to the rest of Grantaire’s clothing, but otherwise neat. If only he knew whether that meant a thing - he recalled wishing for Joly earlier, and felt the same now. This indeed begged the question that he had neglected to address as of all the time they had been dead: why, indeed, had Enjolras ended up here with Grantaire, yet no one else?

He had not the time to muse on it now, though, that he was awake. 

“Making me all pretty?” was Grantaire’s dry response to Enjolras’ efforts. The red seemed to have caught his eye. The words were doubtless an ironic jab at his own homeliness, though Enjolras had never particularly noticed. “Are you sure you’re even doing that right?”

“No,” said Enjolras, tying it off at last. “But I’m the best you’ve got. Now give me your hand.”

Grantaire offered him his injured hand obediently. He had already used the entirety of the red sash, so for this Enjolras did find reason to further tatter his clothing. He untucked the hem of his shirt and, with some effort, ripped a strip of fabric from it, using this to wrap Grantaire’s wounded palm. He tied it off in the middle.

“Can you move your hand all right in that?”

Grantaire wiggled his fingers, stretched them, and made a fist.

“Looks like,” he said. “Have we gotten anywhere?” 

“No,” said Enjolras, “but the river has widened.”

Grantaire looked around, scrutinizing the gray sky and the semi-far-off stone. “There’s writing on them,” he commented. “Local graffiti, I suppose.”

Enjolras squinted. “That would mean others had been this way. Can you see what it says?”

Grantaire stared a little longer, then pronounced, “ _Dieu est mort._ ” 

“‘God is dead,’” repeated Enjolras, little more than a breath. “Do you think it’s true?”

Grantaire wore a look on his face that seemed to express a skepticism - it said clearly, ‘Are you that stupid?’ Enjolras frowned. 

“What?”

“I don’t believe in God,” said Grantaire, stare half disappointed and half cynical. “Remember?”

He remembered. “Nevertheless, you can’t deny that this is something,” said Enjolras. “We have died, and yet we have not ended. Proof, at the very least, of a soul.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Mayhap.”

Were they not floating along on a bed, Enjolras would have stood in frustration. As it was, he simply threw an arm out vaguely. “Do you believe in and accept nothing, cynic? If not proof of a soul, what other explanation do you concoct for this post-mortem existence?”

At this Grantaire acquired a cold smile. “I’m rather less concerned with possibility, good Apollo, and more concerned with reality. And if you’ll pardon, our reality at the moment is ever so clearly becoming one in which I need a drink.”

“There is none,” Enjolras said dismissively, but was proven wrong before his tongue reached the end of his sentence - Grantaire had conjured out of somewhere, probably his coat, a silver flask, which he now tipped to his lips. 

A swallow, and he wiped his lips. “Were there a world in which no drink exists, let me not live in it,” he said.

“You’ll not live in any world at all,” said Enjolras. “You’re dead now.”

“Really?” There rose his sarcasm again. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, now you know,” Enjolras retorted. “Regardless, we can’t be the only ones in this realm. Not if someone’s written here.”

“Unless it’s just decoration,” said Grantaire, spreading his hands like a banner in demonstration. “Perhaps Old Death hired a cynical painter for the place.”

“So, you?” said Enjolras.

Grantaire laughed, though he looked startled at the same time. “Me?” A curious expression set in his brow. 

“You paint,” clarified Enjolras. “Am I wrong?”

“Well, I...” Grantaire scratched the back of his head with his wounded hand. “I suppose I might start scrawling if I could afford it.”

Enjolras wondered if he had been mistaken. “Did Courfeyrac not give you a painting set for Christmas two years ago? Was it another hand I mistook for yours, charcoal-smudged, which gripped and dirtied your mug?”

Grantaire’s expression grew evermore the queer, and Enjolras felt inexplicably embarrassed. 

“Yes...” answered the other finally, slowly. “That’s true, I’m just... surprised you noticed, I suppose.”

Enjolras nodded, understanding this, and fell into quiet again.

Though the sun (if there indeed was one in this sky) was obscured behind the gray tarp of clouds above them, he thought that at least another three quarters of an hour passed before either spoke again. It was Grantaire on this occasion, and he said:

“I think we’re slowing down.”

They both sat up, looking around. He was right, Enjolras thought. The debris surrounding them was much sparser and wider spread now, and the stone of the walls seemed to be closer. Likewise, there was no white cap to any of the flowing streams in the river. 

They sat side by side, watching their surroundings pass; repetitive, but just altering enough to be able to track their movement. Grantaire let his toes dip in the cool water; Enjolras watched with faint envy at his apparent ease. 

“What’s that?” he said not long following. Some shape in the distance altered the otherwise featureless landscape, and had subsequently caught his eye. 

Grantaire withdrew his foot from the water and turned to look in that direction. “A wall?”

As they grew closer, the shape became less blurred.

“No,” said Enjolras, a sense of astonishment growing. “A bridge.”

“A bridge?” repeated Grantaire in a sort of skeptic cry. “Whatever to?”

“I don’t know,” said Enjolras softly, curiously. He was kneeling now, leaning over in Grantaire’s space. Grantaire seemed to be distracted, gaze shifting from the bridge to he. 

The structure approached sooner than either would have calculated; without much waste of time, they found themselves slowing to nearly still waters, the stone bridge growing in size until it was immediately over them, gray and looming (as was everything else). 

“”What on earth,” Enjolras muttered. 

“Not on earth,” responded Grantaire in a murmur. Enjolras felt the boat - bed - rock, and glanced, startled, at Grantaire, to his side, who had pushed himself to standing with a pale and feverish expression of awe. “In Paris.”

“Grantaire, get down, you can’t stand properly,” he exclaimed, grabbing for his trouser leg. Grantaire put his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and smiled at him reassuringly, though there was still some puzzlement on his face.

“I know this place,” he said. “It’s in Paris. I’ve been here many a time.”

To Enjolras, it could have been any bridge along the Seine; he couldn’t find any significant features about it. “What is it?” he asked.

Grantaire shook his head. “It’s not about the bridge; I wouldn’t be able to even tell you its name.” Enjolras had rose to standing now too, an arm at Grantaire’s side to support him. “It’s about the day.”

“And what about the day?” asked Enjolras impatiently. Grantaire had already used the pole to lead their bedfloat to the bank, which, where it met the bridge, consolidated in a set of stone stairs along the wall. He was leaning out and seeming to try and stretch his foot to reach the bottom platform; exasperated, Enjolras helped support him. 

“Just come out quickly. I need you to stand on the bridge. It’s important.”

Enjolras accepted his outstretched hand and pulled himself onto the stone beside Grantaire, who was favoring one leg but otherwise sturdy. Bemused, he raised a brow in his direction pointedly. 

Grantaire seemed excited and a little... distracted, again. He gestured up the stairs, making no move himself. “Go on. Would you? Please?” Something about his smile compelled Enjolras; it bore a beaming sincerity he had not often seen from he cynic, if ever. “Just, stand up there, about the middle?”

Enjolras affixed him with a pensive stare, then gave in with a sigh. “It’s important?”

“Life or death,” said Grantaire with a lopsided smile. 

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras grudgingly ascended the steps. When he reached the top of the bridge, he turned around to look at Grantaire for further instructions. (How silly this suddenly seemed, he posing on some bridge somewhere for the unexplained whim of a cynic; he who had been a leader, catering to another sans logic.) 

“The middle!” cried Grantaire, having dragged himself halfway up behind. “And by the railing, towards this side.”

Pursing his lips, Enjolras obeyed. From the bridge he could see the ridiculousness and yet solemnity of their floating bed, complete with splintered pole and strewn flag of the revolution. He leaned against the wall of the bridge, elbows supporting him, chin resting on one hand. The river gently wound into the distance before him; he got the same vague sense of Paris about him as had been present at their place of awakening, again lacking distinct shape. 

Beneath him, Grantaire was still and stolen. He wore a breathless parted smile, brow intensely set and arms out in anticipation. 

“Wait for it,” he said. 

“For what?” 

No sooner did he speak than the clouds parted above him, revealing sparse beams of light that must have emanated from some sort of sun, for he found the glare somewhat blinding against the water. He glanced up at it briefly, then back down at Grantaire in a faint squint. His face was alit with a splendor such that it might indeed be the sun; he had not, he thought, ever seen his features outside of the dimness of bars or the shadows of streets. It intrigued and confused him, though both emotions were mild in comparison to that of Grantaire’s face right now.

“Are we still waiting?” Enjolras asked.

“No,” said Grantaire in an exultant near-whisper. “That’s exactly right.”

“What is?” Enjolras asked, wearying of the unnecessary mystery. “Are you going to tell me what this place is and why we have encountered it?”

“Oh, I’ve got no idea why we pass through here,” dismissed Grantaire with a light laugh. “By all accounts it makes no sense. But I remember it clearly, and well done Enjolras you’ve fixed it exactly right; precisely do I recapture the moment. The sun did the very same thing, the way it crowns the figure like a halo.”

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked. “The sun crowned whom, or what? Am I to know what prop for whom I stand in for this scenario?”

Grantaire looked surprised, as though he hadn’t considered this. “You’re not a stand-in,” he said. “You’re the original. It was you, right there. You hadn’t known me then; you wouldn’t remember. Well, I hadn’t known you either.”

“I don’t understand,” said he. 

“It is, this, if I recall correctly,” (and Enjolras had no doubt that, with his present fervor, he did) “the absolute first time I laid eyes upon you.”

Enjolras blinked at him. 

Grantaire’s smile faltered.

“What, me?”

Now there were the beginnings of a frown.

“Well, yes,” he said, and his hands were in his pockets now, and he was no longer meeting Enjolras’ eyes. “Forgive me for noticing a striking face.”

“No, no, that’s quite right, I forget again your secret artist,” murmured Enjolras, shoving in his own hands to his trousers. 

Grantaire wore a full frown now, and a squint that equalled Enjolras’. 

“I’m just... I have heard that I am striking when I speak, when I talk. Not when I just... pass by by chance,” admitted Enjolras. “I’m also bemused that you remember it, if indeed you did not know me.”

Grantaire waved a hand, flashing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Forget it,” he said. “I could equally be wrong; after all I’m nothing but a drunken fool who loves a pretty face.”

“A fool, perhaps, but never an imbecile.”

Grantaire bowed in his trademark mock curtsey. “Grantaire: drunken fool, but not an imbecile. I’ll have it as my epitaph - in fact, I’d drink to that.”

Enjolras’ lips tightened and he looked away disapprovingly as Grantaire drew out his flask with a flourish and took another drink, somehow managing to look ironic while doing so. 

“Memories,” he said after a moment. 

“Pardon?” said Grantaire, who had apparently chosen to sit on the steps, likely to rest his leg. 

“Memories,” said Enjolras more clearly. “I think. These two places, the shop and the bridge, are both places we’d been in real life. Perhaps this river visits memories. A reliving, of sorts.”

Grantaire made that thoughtful, agreeable sort of frown, an invisible nod. “Yeah, okay. Though I don’t really imagine this is a significant memory of yours. It’s really rather a one-sided recollection, don’t you think? So I’m not sure whose life we’re really traversing here.”

Enjolras nodded briefly, but was as usual concerned with greater principles. “They do say,” he said, “that upon one’s death, one’s life ‘flashes before the eyes.’ That one relives it, per say, or recalls its length. I wonder...”

“It pleases me to prefer otherwise,” commented Grantaire darkly, but spoke no further on that subject, finger stroking the cap of his flask unconsciously. 

“If we continue traveling down this line of... memories, per say, shall we enter the final realm of death? Step into Heaven? Meet God, perhaps?” Enjolras was pacing, now, hands folded behind his back n thought. He seemed not to be paying attention to Grantaire any longer, displaying the singlemindedness that was so often his defining nature. “What is it meant for? Is it just time, stretched? Is it meant to teach us something? Is it a test? Perhaps this journey is our judgment; but how do we pass? What is the riddle? What are you doing?”

This last statement was directed at Grantaire, who had at last successfully caught his eye again; this due to the rather exaggerated movements he was now only half-parodying, knocking his skull back against the bridge wall in dislike. “Would you stop,” he moaned. “I can’t take this spiritual talk any longer. If it’s a path we’re following can we just get on with it and leave your God talk behind? He might as well have hired me as his graffiti artist, you are right; _Dieu est mort_ , I say, like he - there is no God and I’m tired of you designating this nonsense to some grand plan. My memories are not the business of God or Heaven.” 

“Does it not bother you?” pressed Enjolras, but at Grantaire’s look he cut himself short furiously. “Ah, forget that thought. Fine then, let the musing be done, we’ll just move on from here. Let us return to our, our--deathbed.”

“Deathbed,” snorted Grantaire. “I like that.” His drink was still out and the fingers on the cap were not unconscious this time; he tilted his back and took another swallow. Enjolras’ lip curled. He would run out too soon. 

“You’d best put that away,” he said with self-placating calm. “I’ll need your hand to help you rise again - oh stop that, you’re on steps for the Lord’s sake. You’ve enough limbs crippled.”

Grantaire had by midsentence begun attempting to drag himself up again, but ceased with a huff and an eye roll at Enjolras’ insistence. 

“We can’t go back down the river anyway,” drawled Grantaire as Enjolras came ‘round the bridge edge and breached the top of the stairs. “It’s stopped. Won’t do much good from here.”

Enjolras realized he was right, frowning at the tepid water beneath them. He reached Grantaire and offered his forearm; the latter accepting, Enjolras heaved him to standing and took part of his weight until he balanced. Instead of turning back, though, he released his grip upon Grantaire and continued descending the steps. 

“What did I tell you?” called Grantaire after him, exasperated. “You won’t get naught that way.”

“I’m fetching the flag,” said Enjolras stubbornly, reaching the bottom platform and hopping from there to the soggy mattress. He balanced with feet spread as he gathered the large run of scarlet, folding it bulkily in his arms. 

“You won’t need that,” commented Grantaire, with the air of humoring a foolish act. Enjolras ignored him and tossed the last loop of the fabric over his shoulder, carefully leaping back to the starting stone step. Upon his landing he paused, and grabbed the tall stick Grantaire had commandeered for a pole. With some struggle and a little more manipulation of the cloth over his shoulders, Enjolras managed to break off a height of it with a well-aimed kick. This he carried with him up the steps, and held calmly while Grantaire labored up after him. 

Once side by side, Enjolras thrusted the wood upon Grantaire. “A cane,” he pronounced.

“A conducting wand,” countered Grantaire, waving the stick about. Nevertheless he did use it to support himself after the first step or five as Enjolras and he began walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I told myself I'd finish it before I went to bed, and here it is. At 4 am.


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire was a troublesome traveling companion, Enjolras found. 

He had been perfectly tolerable on the first part of the journey, and Enjolras now realized that was likely due to a combination of shock, exhaustion, and nothing to do. Now that they were walking side by side, however, requiring an active existence, the other man became insufferably obsessed with entertainment. 

His preferred form, unsurprisingly, was the sound of his own voice.

Enjolras, to be fair, was guilty of perhaps overreaching eloquence himself. He was, after all, a speaker and tended to direct most of his political efforts into grand speeches and inspirational mottos. Nevertheless he was not loud or talkative when the occasion did not call for it; this seemed to be the opposite of the case with Grantaire. 

In company, Grantaire never brought up his own topics of conversation. He was, however, never close-mouthed. Whether it was a swig, a scoff, or a scathing remark, he could rarely resist opening his lips. And the more he drank, the more he talked. In fact, drunk Grantaire seemed to be sharper tongued than sober - oft times he had engaged Enjolras in debate whilst thoroughly unsteady of foot, only to prove exceedingly elaborate, knowledgeable, and manipulative in his arguments, which were always loud, rambling, and annoyingly well-aimed. The next day he might claim not to remember a thing, saying that he had been effectively black-out drunk by the start of the conversation. It would have been impressive if it weren’t so aggravating. 

In this situation, however, Grantaire was not in company, and not listening to debates or proclamations that would draw forth a response. His tongue nevertheless sought to wag on. He thus struck up in a number of winding and half-finished sea chanteys, to Enjolras’ partial disgruntlement (the other part was just taken aback). 

Had Grantaire had a bottle in hand, it doubtless would have been swinging wildly as they walked. As he did not, the man instead swung around his pole-stick-cane in an alarmingly haphazard manner, consistently dismissing Enjolras’ protests. He in fact ignored Enjolras entirely, save for the ironic winks he tossed in his direction whenever trilling a particularly saucy line of a song. 

To be honest, Enjolras had not known that Grantaire could sing. He had witnessed him boom slurring bar songs on lively evenings, and mock in lilting tones, but never had he heard him just sing for pleasure. For a cynic, his voice had an excessively playful manner. It easily traded between sonorous deep tones that belted impressively from the chest, to melody rendered in cocky, airy delight, distinctive with personality and pure cheek. It carried well and artfully, never a stumble in key or delay in his breath. When he forgot the next verse to whatever shantey he was singing at first, he simply slipped into another one; had Enjolras not a keen ear he might never have noticed the change. 

Grantaire’s was the sort of voice that would rouse barmen and shipmen alike, enchanting them to join in song. It was clear and unadorned itself, vividly characteristic of its singer in note and tone rather than octave or timbre. It was a likeness of Grantaire himself. Enjolras mused on this in the format of comparison. His own voice was often likened to a herald; golden and ringing. The difference lied, though, in its relation to himself. When Enjolras spoke or sang, his voice and himself were both a perfect medium for a greater message to pass through. When Grantaire spoke or sang, he was a reflection of no one - just himself. Enjolras was the brush, Grantaire the painting. (A moody painting, certainly, abstract and unidealistic - but nevertheless, he was his own art.)

After hours of walking, though, even Enjolras had to gently insist the songs to stop. 

“You know an awful lot of chanteys,” he commented. 

“My father was a sailor,” said Grantaire, flashing a sardonic grin. This was something Enjolras had not known - a dust speck on a landscape thereof, likely. He realized that for a man who spoke so much, there was very little about him that Enjolras actually knew. 

“If you must wag your tongue so, might we cease the crude melodies and instead converse with some civility?” tested Enjolras carefully. “Tell me more about your father.”

“I’d rather not,” he said shortly, and promptly paced several metres ahead, using his wood stick for support. 

Enjolras trotted to catch up to him. “Pace yourself,” he scolded. “I’ll not ask on your father, then. What about your mother? - What are you doing?”

Grantaire had bent down on the cobbled path they walked, picking up a pebble. “Leaving my mark,” he said. 

“How so?”

“Well, if graffiti is how one leaves their signature around here, than I can’t hardly be left out, can I?” He had used the smaller stone to scratch upon the pathstones, digging his lines in several times over until the capital letter ‘R’ was distinct. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever carved a tree trunk in your life or any such thing, have you? Or I’d say leave yours with mine.”

“I don’t have a fancy signature such as yours,” commented Enjolras, but bent down beside him anyway, lifting a pebble between his fingers thoughtfully. 

“Put an ‘e,’ then, for _enculé_ ,” teased Grantaire. Enjolras frowned and shook his head at him, nevertheless leaning over and tracing out some light outline with his own rock. Grantaire himself sat back, one knee up, supporting himself on his hands. He glanced around at their surroundings, which had been shady and leafy for some time now. “She died, anyway.”

“Who did?”

“My mother.”

There was a pause, Enjolras completing the last swoop of his considerably shallower inscription. It was “e &” preceding Grantaire’s “R”, so that it looked to say “e&R” all together. “I’m sorry,” said he, setting the rock down at last and glancing back at Grantaire.

“Why? Tis long past now,” said the other, who attempted to stand. Enjolras rose quickly and helped him up. 

“Nevertheless, tis a sore thing to lose one’s mother,” said Enjolras solemnly. 

“I think we’d rather best skip the parenting topic,” Grantaire responded, not unkindly but bearing a faintly cold edge. “Beautiful signature, by the way. Are you sure the ‘e’ doesn’t stand for _enculé_?”

Enjolras did not dignify his prod with a response, instead wiping his hands on his trousers and beginning to walk again, setting an even enough pace that Grantaire could fairly match it. “Brothers or sisters?”

“Two sisters,” said Grantaire. “Is family all you know how to ask about?”

“It’s a starting place, I think.”

“And where’s the ending place?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Enjolras. “It seems inappropriate to share death with you and yet knowing so little. I thought I’d try and compensate.”

Grantaire shrugged, though Enjolras thought there was some sense of vulnerability in his shoulders. “Not much to know.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I disagree.”

A faint smile graced Grantaire’s lips. “As is customary; I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

At this Enjolras looked at his companion again. “All right then, a different topic of questioning. Do you mean that, do you genuinely enjoy arguing with me?” Were it spoken in a different tone, less serious, less earnest, less curious, it would have come off as accusatory. As it was, even Grantaire could not dismiss the question as a rudeness. An unidentifiable expression flitted across his face, and he looked at the ground before answering him.

“Fairly, yes,” he said. “Admittedly I rather do.”

Enjolras did not know what answer he thought would be given, but he had not anticipated a direct assent. He frowned to himself, wondering when the simple, contrary drunkard became such a puzzle. 

“Why?” he asked. 

This time Grantaire did look at him expressly, and his smile was one of nothing other than a deeply secretive sort of pleasure. These honest words floated honeyedly off his wicked tongue: “I like to see you blush.”

There was a playful, predatory gleam in him, but Enjolras did not doubt it to be true. Though he understood not, there was something inherently in-character about the admission; Grantaire would, of course, have no interest in arguing his views for, as a nonbeliever, there was none of them which struck up in him a passion. Thus his motivation lay in the sought reaction - what remained a puzzle was how Enjolras had become the source of his desired entertainment; but certain reasons could not be dissected and this, he thought, was one such. 

He could only, then, respond with an incomprehending shake of the head. “You are queer, Grantaire.”

“Queer as they come,” he affirmed with a faint air of pride. 

And they lapsed into a brief silence again. 

Unsurprisingly, the quiet was once more broken by Grantaire. More surprisingly, it neither shtick nor song this time. “All right then,” he said, as if in response to something. Enjolras looked at him, blinking. He looked right back.

“All right,” he repeated. “If you’re so eager to learn, let us chat. There’s naught better to do and even I cannot maintain song forever. Go on. Ask me something, and I’ll ask you something back. We’ll trade off.”

Were he not afraid it would persuade Grantaire against his decision, Enjolras would have allowed a pleased smile. As it was, he simply nodded. “That seems fair,” he consented. “Would you like the first question, then?”

Grantaire shook his head with a smile, but then tossed his head up to the sky and sighed. “All right, fine.” He scrunched his lips in apparent thought, possessing all the appearance of a man in the midst of serious pondering. At last, he spoke: “Favorite animal?”

“Favorite animal?” Enjolras repeated with a startled laugh, caught off guard.

Grantaire nodded solemnly. “It’s important.”

“Well,” said Enjolras, thinking. “I suppose I would say a cat. Or something tenacious, like a ferret.”

Another nod. “Interesting. Your turn, then.”

“How old are your sisters?”

A furrowed brow indicated this was not an inquiry Grantaire wanted to hear; nevertheless, he answered without malice: “Twelve and seventeen. Favorite color?”

“Amaranthine. If you would liken yourself to a creature, which creature would it be?”

“A toad. Same question.”

“I do not think you are a toad, Grantaire. And a nightinggale.”

“It’s astonishing how both keen and consistent your mistaken views are. Very well, what would you name me?”

“It’s not your turn for a question.”

“Fine; go on.”

“Why a toad?”

“Because I dwell in the mud of society, I have warts, and I talk very loud, but my croaks are not beautiful to hear.”

“I would name you a mule. You are as stubborn.”

“An ass! Well, I’m honored.”

Enjolras allowed the corner of a smile to seep through. “You also carry great burden and have very large ears. And what would you name I?”

“On foot, a stag. With wing, I would call you a pheonix.”

He shook his head. “I will not rise from these ashes.”

“Now you are sounding the skeptic. Have you always held such airs? No - wait, that’s not my question. It’s: your favorite holiday.”

“Christmas.”

“Ah, how predictable of you!”

“Nevertheless it is true. It pleases me to see everyone united in spirit. You, with that art set from Christmas - what did you make with it?”

There was a pause in Grantaire’s jaunty limp. His lips remained open briefly, considering before they spoke. “... With those, I achieved... poppies,” he said.

“Poppies?” said Enjolras, surprised. He hadn’t imagined Grantaire as a person who loved flowers. 

“Ah ah ah,” said he, wagging his finger at Enjolras. “My turn. What is your favorite time of day?”

Enjolras smiled. “I shall greet no other as kindly as the dawn.”

“Pah,” said Grantaire. 

“Tell me then, what is your favorite thing to draw?”

“Debauchery.”

“Be serious.”

“I am never serious, Enjolras; however, I am always honest. Count on me for a scene of a seedy bar’s back, women with their skirts up, men with greedy teeth and greasy hands!”

“That’s disgusting,” Enjolras mumbled. “Isn’t there anything else you like to paint?”

“You really must refrain from always stealing my turn like that. If you could draw, what would be your subject?”

“You always manage to compel me to it. I should draw up treatises of liberty.”

“Words aren’t art, Apollo! Well, from your lips they are. But nix that, try another answer.”

“Very well then. I should paint inspirations. _Scenes_ of liberty, tributes to great men and philosophers, symbols taking flight, and the flying of flags everywhere. And should you choose a subject other than debauchery, what would you paint?”

“I would draw a Greek god reincarnated as a revolutionary in France.”

“That’s curiously specific.”

“You’re curiously obtuse,” Grantaire laughed. “But I forgive you for it. My question is, why believe in a God you’ve never seen, when a real god walks the earth in Paris?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Enjolras. “But we’re coming to something.” He pointed ahead of them, where a great building loomed. 

Grantaire gazed at the height of the structure in ill-disguised awe. 

“Well, this certainly isn’t any memory of mine. Yours, Enjolras?”

But when he looked to his side, he found his companion to have already disappeared ahead.

He sighed loudly. “I’m on a shoddy crutch, you ass! Slow down.”

Enjolras kept ahead, though, so Grantaire picked up his limpid pace and followed. 

This building was familiar to Enjolras, but it was not one that he had seen in a very long time. He entered it with a keen sense of weightlessness, pushing aside the large oak doors with ease and gliding up the marble tile. 

“Where are we?” called Grantaire, stepping in after him. His voice echoed around the pillared walls simultaneously with his gaze. 

The inside had all the appearances of a ballroom. It was spacious and gilded, all marble and stone. There were long golden tables on each side, artistic floral arrangements in the corners; statues on pedestals. At the far end were arced steps, three levels, extending from a large platform carpeted in velvet red. This stage was flocked by alabaster spiraling stairs and, each wearing crimson-and-gold curtains against their walls. In the center of this area was a gleaming piano. 

The room was entirely empty save for these two. 

Enjolras strode up from the entrance to the very back, ascending the steps and approaching the grand instrument. He walked around it, trailing his fingers over the sculpted edges, as though greeting an old friend. Grantaire wore a strange and almost uncomfortable expression. Enjolras paused at the keyboard of the device, tracing his hand over the length of the keys. He looked up, eyes finding Grantaire’s face immediately, though he had not been looking at him this whole time. 

“I played here once,” he said. 

“I did not know you play piano,” said Grantaire.

“I do not,” murmured Enjolras. “But I did as a child. I was shown off here; there was a recital. This room was full -”

He gestured out grandly to the coldly silent tile. 

“... I did not see any of them.”

Grantaire slowly knelt at the foot of the red stairs, which he had managed to reach while Enjolras spoke. 

“Play for me,” he breathed. 

Enjolras sat. 

The song at first sober and yet prodding, gliding from slightly dark keys to trilling arpeggios, lilting in a distinctly sonorous manner. It rose in a repetitive, rhythmic fashion, ascending to a clearer tone in which it dallied delicately for many measures before beginning to spin yet again in a cooler, more tantalizing dance, echoing the notes which had begun it. A shadowy harmony complemented softly dramatic slow crescendo, whose notes rang with less pause and more frenzy as it went on quicker and quicker. A flourish of scales and arpeggios sauntered the music into a clever end. 

By Enjolras’ finish, Grantaire’s eyes were wet and his cheeks ruddy. The former let his fingers linger on the keys, staring at the blank black wood in front of him. He exhaled, looking faintly feverish. 

At the very moment he looked up, there was a sudden rush of sound. Both Grantaire and Enjolras whipped their heads about, startled; though the room was empty, the walls were echoing with what sounded like muffled, faraway applause. Like the roaring of the waves in a seashell, it occupied the air with a vibrato. 

“Looks like the ghosts liked your performance, Enjolras,” exclaimed Grantaire, baffled. The sound did not die down, but something more startling then occurred: a figure, which certainly had not been there before, entered from the left wing, bending down slightly with his hands on his knees. It was well-groomed man, with dark hair combed back, and he seemed to be beckoning to Enjolras.

With an expression of quivering disbelief, Enjolras stood from his seat, transfixed. 

“Father?” he expressed with dry mouth. 

Grantaire’s eyes widened. 

Though Enjolras’ steps were slow with amazement, the man did not wait to speak. 

“Ah, my angel,” he said, speaking as though someone were right in front of him. “I am proud of you. Did you know that? There are many people out there you know - they’ll know you and find you charming; you will be a joy of this family.” 

Enjolras had reached him in actuality by this time. 

“You would not be proud of me now,” he said. 

Grantaire called out hoarsely. “I would,” was his message. 

Enjolras turned to Grantaire. This other man, who appeared to hear nothing, took his hands, squeezed them, and began to turn away. He tugged at Enjolras’ right sleeve, seeming to be leading him away. Enjolras shook him off thoughtlessly and the man went on anyway, returning to wherever from whence he came, hand outstretched behind as though he believed his son was with him. 

Something about Enjolras’ brow must have been uncomprehending, for Grantaire stood heavingly and repeated himself. “I’d be proud of you,” he said. The quality of his voice edged on bitter, but in his gaze nothing but ferocious adoration was present. 

All at once, Enjolras’ strange air collapsed; his shoulders fell, and he smiled gently. 

“Thank you, Grantaire,” said he. “However difficult I find it to picture you full of pride at anyone, it is good to hear it.”

“For none but you,” Grantaire said. He stepped grandly up to Enjolras’ level, strolling to him. “So this is your memory, eh? I admit it is alien to me; yet there is nothing less alien than music.” He took Enjolras’ hand, pressing it as his father had done, but more warmly. 

“What was that song, Apollo?”

Grantaire’s tone was conversational, and Enjolras appreciated his efforts to assuage the aftereffects the somewhat jarring experience. “A concerto by Louis-Emmanuel Jadin,” he answered. 

“Ah, well, it was striking,” praised Grantaire. “You welled my poor eyes; I couldn’t see. Though that’s not much to say - a poor drunkard like me, all drunks cry at anything beautiful.”

“You do not cry now, do you?” questioned Enjolras at once, leaning forward to inspect Grantaire’s face. The latter simply laughed and swatted him away. 

“No, Apollo,” he said. “I shall simply have that refrain in my head for a long time.” He brought Enjolras’ hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it fondly, then patted and dropped it, striding away with a limp and a sordid grin.

Enjolras followed him. Something about this place was still solemn, and though the ghost applause had faded, the air was hung with an eerie silent buzz. He was glad when Grantaire lost no haste in walking directly out; it was only once the doors shut behind them both again that he breathed easily. 

Alas; it was Grantaire’s turn to let out a sigh. 

“Is it going to change every time?” he said wearily to no one. Enjolras glanced around, no comprehension lost in to what he referred. Their surroundings had altered from shady cobbled path to a pale green landscape of meadowgrass, dotted with lavenders and yellows; overhead, a white-yellow sun in a light azure sky. There were no landmarks, as usual. Instead of a walking path, what lay ahead of them was a broad dirt road, bordered on one side by an unremarkable wooden fence, two slats high. 

“I suppose it will,” said Enjolras. 

Grantaire made some noise, then with a rustle produced and shoved into Enjolras’ hands his own flask. “You need that,” he said. “Drink.” And then he took a pocketknife out of the back of his trousers and knelt at the fence, no doubt marking it with his trademark signature. 

Enjolras was not a drinker, but his nerves could not deny the welcome warmth of Grantaire’s liquor. He took only two swallows, letting them spread from a burn in his throat to a spiraling tendril in his chest, seeming to detwist and unknot his tendons and veins. He licked his lips, offering it back to Grantaire. 

Grantaire set the flask down on the grassy dirt beside him. Enjolras watched the determined carving of his knife. Once the large ‘R’ was complete, he lifted it above and began to dig in something else. 

“What are you doing?” said Enjolras. 

“Well, it’d be inconsistent if I didn’t do it the same as last time,” said Grantaire, confirming his impression. 

“Don’t be stupid,” cried Enjolras. Grantaire dropped his knife, looking at him. “It won’t mean a thing if I’m not the one to cut it.”

There was a pause of realization, then a slowly blooming grin curving Grantaire’s lips. He pressed the knife into Enjolras’ hands, taking his flask and scooting back to a distance where he could lift himself back to a standing position without getting in the way. Enjolras sat flat, starting where Grantaire had already dug in a dash of a line, devoting his efforts for the next minute to carving a neat matching ‘e &’ to precede Grantaire’s ‘R.’ 

“Very lovely,” commented Grantaire from behind him. 

Enjolras stood without comment and returned the blade to his companion. He set out walking, trudging along calmly so that the semi-invalid would be able to keep up.

“Well, now that that’s done,” said Grantaire as they set off, returning to exaltations. “That just reminds me of an entirely different song!”

Enjolras groaned, but inside he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't understand; I literally spent about two hours of frustrated research following link trails solely for the purpose of finding an appropriate composer and song for Enjolras to have played. You don't know how hard it is to find non-revolutionary, non-operatic, non-orchestral songwriters who wrote and published in early 19th century France. Good lord.
> 
> Also, thank you for the positive feedback so far! This chapter was slightly shifted in tone and content, so I can only hope it goes over as well. Could be hit-or-miss, really. 
> 
> Regardless, I appreciate your reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in getting out this chapter. My very-loved pet snake died suddenly, my close friend was admitted to the hospital on suicide watch, I had papers and midterms that I was not prepared for, I spent the weekend out of town to DJ for a fan-hosted dance, and I have been lacking in sleep and experiencing an excess of stress in general. Your patience is appreciated. c:
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Commenter [atheartagentleman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman) has been gracious enough to help me with my miserably atrocious French! With their advice I have slightly altered two parts in this chapter - none of the content, don't worry, just the language bits to make it more accurate. So you may thank them for that!

Enjolras and Grantaire awoke wrapped in red.

They had both eventually admitted tiring, after a decent stretch of the dirt road in the meadow. Though exhaustion here seemed to be mental rather than physical, neither had been abject to the idea of a respite. Unlike the river, however, they did not have a bed upon which to retire. 

After some discussion, both men seemed to assent that their best bet for a modicum of comfort was to sleep on the grass, cocooned in the crimson flag; the closest approximation they had to a blanket. Sometime during their sleep they must have rolled together under it, for when the time came to awake, they were nestled and facing each other, foreheads less than an inch apart. 

Enjolras awoke first, and immediately stilled his breath so as not to steal the other from his sleep. He had never seen the other unconscious naturally; had only ever witnessed him in drunken slumber of knocked out from some fight. It was edging on uncomfortable, these continuous and successive realizations of things about Grantaire he had never seen. 

He carefully edged into a sitting position, shifting to lean against the fencepost at his back. 

It had been at least two full ‘days’ in death, then, so far. Or whatever they ought to call these stretches between sleep - time was difficult to keep track of here, and there was no notable movement of sun in the sky (when there was a sun to see, at least). It felt strange. At least two full days. Did time pass as well in life, in the real world? Had their efforts been all forgotten by now?

He wondered what had become of the barricade, and imagined it washed down the streets like it had been here, bits and pieces floating along. Wondered where the dead were. Whether anyone remembered them. How quickly were such forgotten? Here they were, clad in the cloth of the revolution. But who would know?

Troubled, he disentangled himself in order to rise to a standing position. Leaving Grantaire rolled in the banner (was that irony?), he stretched his arms and legs, looking around at their surroundings. He couldn’t tell whether they had changed or not, and decided to believe they hadn’t. 

“Nobody said this place required sentry duty,” remarked a dry voice behind him. “I should get my deposit back. It seemed like such a nice place.”

Enjolras turned back to look at him. “It is,” he said. “In comparison to what we left behind.”

Grantaire wagged a finger at him. “You’re edging into my territory again,” he scolded. “What are you looking at?”

“What’s that behind you?”

“What’s what?”

Enjolras stepped back over to Grantaire, leaning over him to inspect the section of fencing to which he referred. “Did you carve any more last night?”

“No, why?” Grantaire was having some difficulty twisting around to see, encumbered by the flag. “Is there more graffiti?”

“‘ _Je suis rentré dans le jardin de Dieu. Je partagerai avec vous le secret: Le Dieu que vous croyiez connaître n'est plus; Il n'y a pas de rédemption là où il demeurait_ ,’” read Enjolras. 

There was silence. 

“Well, that’s a lovely poem,” murmured Grantaire. 

Enjolras seemed to be developing a passion; his brow was marble, his eyes alit in shadow. “A garden, they say,” said he. 

Grantaire began developing a cautious countenance. “Yes, wonderful.” He began slowly shifting up. 

“The garden of God... Eden? Is that what they mean?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Eden was never supposed to be part of death. What is it? A metaphor? Or something we did not know?” 

Enjolras was pacing now, hands clasped behind his back and wearing a fervent expression. Grantaire had ceased the effort of responding, watching with a dark and pensive eye. He had the air of a person who did not wish to be involved.

“I don’t understand what this means. Is it tomfoolery? _Je partagerai avec vous le secret_... What secret? That _Dieu est mort_ , God is dead, again? Or departed? No redemption?” He seemed to be effervescent, awash in a golden fury. Enjolras wore the face of Apollo once more. “I do not accept this! If there is a God here, if there is a garden, if there is an Eden, a secret, an answer, I will find it and demand the truth. I will not be rendered in limbo. Either strike me down or open your gates to me, reject me to the earth once again if it pleases you, but this is a theocratic structure I will not stand for!”

“Calm down,” drawled Grantaire, and Enjolras’ gaze flashed to him as though he had forgotten the other was there. 

Grantaire looked as sour as the grapes that fermented the wine he so often drank. His flask was out again, and tipped to his lips without refrain. Something sallow coarsened his eyes, and the downward slash of his mouth was unkind. 

“I will not be calm,” answered Enjolras. 

“Do, for me,” said Grantaire, with a touch of his old irony. He leaned his head back. “I see nothing to get in a fuss about. This is death; did you expect it to form to your whims? Besides which, what you see is just the failed metric rhyme of some cynic like me. Ignore it. It does not concern you.”

“I am concerned despite you,” retorted Enjolras. 

“I did not expect you to be one so dissatisfied with death,” remarked Grantaire coldly. 

Enjolras felt the accusation in his words and responded calmly. “I am not,” said he. “I welcome death with open arms. This is not death. This is a facade of living. And I refuse to take part in an existence in which I may do no good to a cause; thus, find me the real death, and consequently, real satisfaction.”

“Are you so eager for nonexistence?” snapped Grantaire. “Are you so afraid to live life like the rest of us, drifting through happenings you cannot control, no sign of meaning, forced to accept that you can do nothing but keep traveling?”

Enjolras affixed him only with a solemn stare, to which Grantaire scoffed and looked away. “I am not afraid,” he said. “I am angry.”

“It is not your best passion,” muttered the other, and tipped back his flask all the way, emptying every drop into his mouth. 

“Are you not the one afraid?” lashed Enjolras at this, frustrated. “Even in death you drown yourself in drink, unwilling to face your surroundings, much less try to do anything about them. You are incapable of participating in any existence, life and death alike. I sometimes wonder why you bother to breathe at all, if you hate so much every quality about the air that feeds your lungs.”

Grantaire smiled sardonically, a harsh facsimile of amusement. “It must be for the benefit of people like you,” he said. “After all, who else would you look down on, you who love the poor and needy, if not for the hateful, like me? And of course, what would I be without a golden godkin over which to despair, and in whose shadow to bask as though it be the sun?”

“I do not look down on you,” shot Enjolras. “You look down on yourself.”

Grantaire shrugged. “I see no difference. You nor anyone seek to place me among yourselves.”

“The Amis welcomed you as your brethren.”

“They welcomed me as a fool in their court.”

“They welcomed you in their court; it was you that pitted yourself a fool.”

“There was no other place for me.”

“There is always a place for you.”

“There is never a place for men like me.”

“I have never met a man like you.”

“You’ve never wanted to.”

Enjolras huffed, eyes still glinting and now in contrast to a face that had begun to wear red. “I see it the other way around.” He straightened and stepped back from the tangled banner on the ground. “Have my sincere apology, Monsieur Grantaire. It seems I have failed my promise. Were I still able to return you to your original scene, I would do so. However, scenery changes and the current of a river long past prevent me from fulfilling you. Should you come across a surrounding in which you would wish to acquaint yourself, I shall gladly settle you.”

In a mark of his scorn, the pronouns in this address were stingingly formal; it was as though, through his _vous_ instead of _tu_ , he wished to insinuate a further distance between them.

Grantaire, who had begun struggling with his makeshift cane halfway through Enjolras’ speaking, at last managed to heave himself up to standing. His stare was cavernous, hollow treachery. “You think I would rather return to the tavern.”

“You asked of it when we first set off.”

“I did not ask; you offered.”

“Nevertheless, you accepted.”

“Well, now I reject.”

“Now you don’t have a tavern to go back to; you can only reject.”

“I reject it anyway,” said Grantaire angrily. “You may be dissatisfied with death, but I choose this path. Would you choose to seek God? Where would you seek him? There is only one road which might end in his palace, one direction in which to travel in your fruitless quest. You must keep moving on this same path; what use is it to proclaim a new and great goal and fervor? Be ambitious towards what you wish, but keep quiet about it. I wish not to seek a thing; I would prefer to pretend I am walking with you, and that is all.”

“Would your whole death be walking with me and be satisfied?” Enjolras was decadently grand in his righteous bafflement. 

“Were that the entirety of my life, my death, and all of a thousand resurrections, I would be satisfied,” said Grantaire fiercely.

“Then anything would satisfy you.”

“You are wrong, Apollo. Only this. Ever only this.”

And with that, he stooped down and haphazardly attempted to scoop up whatever length of the red fabric he could reach. Silently, Enjolras bent down to assist him. They twisted it until it was of suitable shape to wrap around Enjolras several times as an overstuffed sash; it would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but worn by he, it gained the appearance of a glorious burden: the thread of the republic itself, mounted by its most resplendent revolutionary. 

When they had gathered all and seemed ready to move on, Enjolras faced Grantaire with a stoic determination. “I’ll not stop seeking,” said he. 

“I’ll not start,” promised Grantaire. 

Enjolras nodded solemnly, then began to walk. Grantaire, at a swinging limp, followed. 

Because of the headway they had made in their previous stretch of waking, it had not been long enough to diffuse the tension before they arrived at their next destination. They had, however, spent enough time traversing that the fade of the meadowy flowers seemed natural, and the growing substantialness of the fence along their path failed to attract their notice. 

When they finally did realize they were in a different place than they had started, Enjolras and Grantaire found themselves at the foot of a two-story building; or at least, as it appeared, a slice thereof. It was unfamiliar to Enjolras; he looked to Grantaire. The latter stood with a sort of awestruck expression about his face.

“I take it you know this place?” prodded Enjolras.

“My old apartment,” said Grantaire, glancing at him. 

“Do you know this memory yet?”

“No,” said Grantaire. “But I do know it must happen inside. Come.” And he beckoned Enjolras to the door to join him. 

With an ever-rising constance, here was yet another thing Enjolras had never seen of Grantaire’s: his home. He knew where every other member of the Amis lived; never, though, Grantaire. With a brief reflection, he recalled that he had never needed to seek Grantaire. He had always just been there. But no - that hadn’t quite been it. He had sought the drunkard before, on occasion (not often). Had needed the extra hand or simply expected his presence. No, the real point was that he had failed to ever picture Grantaire in a home. He imagined him living bar to bar, never sleeping unless passed out, never in a bed unless with a very drunk woman. It was hard to see Grantaire in mind’s eye without a barstool to kick off of with a daring lope, or a serving maid to refill his ever-flowing mug. 

Here was proof how silly this imagery had been, he scolded himself as they ascended the stairs and reached a small wooden door, which Grantaire pulled open. 

The apartment was on the second story, not large, but not uncomfortably cramped. For a single person, it was room enough, and its single window let in a good amount of light. It had, however, none of the accessories one would expect of a living space. It had no dressers nor drawers, no tables, no chairs. For a bed, there was a dirty mattress strewn in the corner of the floor, sheets tangled at the foot of it, no pillow in sight. Aside from one half-open trunk in the corner, there appeared to be no place to keep his clothes; instead, they loitered, in crumpled piles and oft sporting unsightly stains, all about the floor. Amongst them were littered bottles: many empty, some half-drunk, none full. 

The lack of furniture and the mess were not the most striking aspects of the living space, however. The most significant feature of the small room was that every inch of it was covered in drawings. There were at least three different easels at first glance,  
and stretched canvases leaning about in various corners. To the otherwise bare walls were pinned dozens upon dozens of charcoal drawings, stuck in place haphazardly, overlapping one another, smeared, crooked, messily scrawled, and phenomenally rendered. Every single one of the papers seemed to include figures, some with gestural scenes in apparent alleyways, others still portraits or studies of anatomy. 

Most of the canvases, which appeared to have been treated carelessly, bore muted gray-and-flesh-and-burgundy tones, strokes that slashed and daubed, and which depicted naked or partially naked figures - some underdressed and dirty with poverty, some entangled pornographically, some in blurred brawls (a few all of the above). Grantaire had not lied when he said he would paint debauchery. He had, apparently, lied when he said he did not often paint. 

The most vivid of the pieces, however, were the canvases which took up the easels and mid-wall space, by the window and the bed. These, while still distinctly gestural in nature, were infinitely more detailed, and their washed gray tones were deepened and accentuated with warm colors. Enjolras, who had stood looking around in an affixed manner for far too long, at last stepped forward to inspect one.

“I just remembered that it’s actually a terrible thing to have you in my room,” remarked a soft and bristly voice behind him. He did not turn towards Grantaire.

“Are you embarrassed? These show incredible talent.”

“I’m not embarrassed of my talent,” said Grantaire, and Enjolras did turn towards him this time for a glance, some sort of instinctual (shameful) surprise at a self-compliment that did not reek of sarcasm-disguised hate. 

“Then what of?” he inquired.

Not answering, Grantaire picked up a bottle from the floor by the door, lumbered his crutch-dependent self over to his mattress, and swung his leg over to flop himself on it. He rolled onto his back for comfort, folded an arm behind his head, and gazed at the ceiling sophically, taking a swig from the red wine thus contained. 

Upon determining that he was unlikely to shed light on the matter, Enjolras returned to Grantaire’s paintings. The one he was looking at showed what felt like a familiar scene. It was the view of someone sitting at a table in a large and populous room. The left edge of the painting was obscured by someone whom the viewer seemed to be shadowing the shoulder of; the rest of the figures in view were mid-laugh, eyes gleaming in delight, some cups raised, some eyes lowered in a chuckle, someone’s hand in the air raucously. A pocketwatch on the table - wait. Wasn’t that Joly’s?

Leaning in further, Enjolras began to pick up further details. It was Joly, shiny-cheeked and soft-eyed Joly, and next to him a flushed and grinning Bahorel, some of his flyaway tangles escaping and caught with light. That capricious and wholehearted laugh next to him belonged to curly-haired Courfeyrac, the long lines of his dimples captured perfectly in single strokes, mid-guffaw - and behind him, though only half in view, the gentle countenance of Jehan, whose curtaining locks wisped over his shoulder and barely revealed a twinkling eye and dark lashes. 

Though he could not have sketched them in the moment, nor studied them in movement, Grantaire’s depictions of the Amis were accurate to the last detail and impossible to mistake. That swipe of white paint was one of the boxing scars on Bahorel’s knuckles; that speck that might have been thought an accident was the tiny mole on Jehan’s left ear. Struck in awe, Enjolras tore himself away to pursue the other paintings, enflamed to see the rest of their motley crew.

Here was one from above, as they were just flowing in: Feuilly already leaning against the counter with casually crossed arms; entering, Bossuet, mid-gesture and glancing behind him, probably telling a story. Just halfway through the door, broad-shouldered and complacent Combeferre. Though he was painted still, Grantaire had not failed to include that shadow which perfectly suggested the smile on his lips. Outside the window, some undefined figure, straight-backed and in the midst of a beckon. 

Here was one again, in the middle of a meeting. Two legs spread and standing on top of the table took up the foreground and obscured some faces; nevertheless, Enjolras thought he saw Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, Combeferre, and Feuilly, at the very least. Each painting was still mostly stone-and-earth toned, like the others; just fleshed out with more rosiness in the figures and colored blurs of motion. Unlike the other paintings, though, each of these scenes of the Amis also included orange glow somewhere or another. Reflecting in their eyes, gleaming from the fireplace in the back, candles on the table, unidentified halos crowning chins and hair. It was this touch, more than anything else, that adorned these captures of dim settings with inherent life. 

“Phenomenal,” murmured Enjolras. 

“Wasteful,” said Grantaire, finally piping up from his corner. Enjolras faced him, getting the distinct impression that the other had been watching his enraptured observation the whole time. 

“Why do you say so?” he said with a frown.

“Even the most heart-lifting renditions of friendship don’t sell,” said Grantaire. He had apparently set down the bottle, but his thumb still caressed its mouth. Instead of another drink, he turned his eyes yet again to the ceiling. “Not that anything I painted did.”

“Just because a work is not marketable does not mean it is not great,” said Enjolras. “How did you manage to remember them so perfectly for long enough to get it on canvas?”

At this Grantaire spread into a crooked-toothed grin. “Because I didn’t have the memory capacity while I was there, and the images thus waited to come to me until I was sober.”

“You were sober when you painted these?” Whoops--Enjolras wondered if he should have waited before letting that slip out of his mouth.

Grantaire did not seem to mind. “The only things in this room I painted sober,” he said with a smirk. 

Enjolras did remember to tame his lips before they could say That’s unsurprising. 

Instead, he let his gaze drift back to the canvas by the window, and thought of something suddenly. Blinking about at the others, a curious observation was lifted from his tongue: “I’m not in any of these.”

He hadn’t noticed before because he was remembering their times through his own eyes; but yes, Grantaire was not the only one missing here. Unless he was looking wrong, he did not see his face among them. 

“You are in every one.” Grantaire’s disagreement drew his attention; his tone belied jest. 

“Point them out to me?” Enjolras asked. 

Before he could complete the trouble of prying himself up, Enjolras swept over to offer Grantaire a helping hand. He lifted himself with the other’s help, and, propped on the flagpole-cane, touched three different canvases in one spot each. 

“Here,” he said. “Here. And here.”

All at once Enjolras saw himself. Grantaire was perfectly right; he was in every depiction (the only one, he thought, in all three). In the first, the figure from whose back the viewer watched was he. In the second, the beckoning man. In the third, it was his own legs that blocked unwary faces. He had not noticed because in each, he was set apart. Nevertheless, now knowing, he could spot himself in an instant. And upon seeing, he noticed another thing. In each event, his countenance was gilded with yellow gold. A halo cresting him; an eclipse of sunlight through glass; a honeyed outline gleam. In each representation, his was the object receiving (or giving, as it in some cases appeared) the most light. 

He wasn’t sure entirely what it meant, just that it was likely some sort of revelry, and that the way in which his organs twisted at the realization was likely some sort of appreciation. 

“I see,” he said at last.

“Do you?” inquired Grantaire, and there was a darkness in the shine of his eyes that spoke of a deeper question. 

Because of this, Enjolras succumbed to some retreat. “Perhaps not like you do,” he consented. “Nevertheless, what I see still awes me.”

“Then you are too easily awed,” said Grantaire carelessly. 

“Why did you never paint me in full face?”

“Because your resplendence would blind out all the others in the room,” said Grantaire. “I could, if you wanted.”

“Paint me?” Enjolras had not expected this.

“Well, I am reliving a memory, am I not?”

“What happened in this memory, besides?” He had forgotten, in all his amazement, to ask. 

“I painted,” said Grantaire simply. 

“Is that significant somehow?” pressed he. 

“Well, I don’t usually paint.”

At Enjolras’ look, he elaborated.

“Look, I’m not as busy as all my shit makes me look. These are all piled up from time and time again; I must keep that which I do not sell, and I do not sell hardly anything. I rarely can afford to produce new paintings; I only amass old ones from the times in which I luck upon a brush in hand.”

“How did you afford these ones?”

This was a cat’s smile: “I sold my dresser.”

Enjolras started. “For paint!”

“For a record,” corrected Grantaire. “Of friendship borne. If you would press me more for the significance of the date, I would tell you that was it. I felt joyous enough to paint because it was the day that Les Amis de l'A B C first treated me like a comrade. We drank together, we sang together, we laughed together; I came home, I sold my dresser, I bought paint, and I spent it all in a rapturous frenzy. Stupid, really, but at least I had proof then that I, Grantaire, the piteous and hideous, had amassed myself one of life’s only true glories.”

Though these were nowhere near the words in his mind, Enjolras could only voice (murmured): “You sold your dresser for paint, but then where did you put the paint with no dresser?”

Grantaire looked at him and then scoff-laughed. “Eh, it would have not gone to use; every drop was gone by the end of the following day.”

“Very well then,” said Enjolras, deciding. 

Grantaire gave him a confused look.

“You have not properly relived your memory; then, let you do so. If you have never painted my face, do so now.” Enjolras perched himself on a stool; wooden and bare, he had before mistaken it for part of the easel under which it sat. 

Grantaire stared at him. 

“I cannot,” he said. 

“Why not?” Enjolras frowned. “You said only a moment ago that you would.”

“I cannot,” he said again, more slowly, “because you are again too light, and I don’t have the paints for it. So I cannot paint you. But I can draw you.”

“All right,” consented Enjolras with a nod. “Then that is what you shall do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm not a French-speaker by any means, I have to apologize for the French used in this chapter, as I can't guarantee it has been translated exactly correctly. The supposed translation is meant to be:
> 
> "I went to the garden of God. / The secret, I'll share with you: / The God you thought you knew is gone; / There is no redemption where he dwelt."
> 
> EDIT
> 
> As mentioned in the beginning note, I've fixed the writing of the French poetry a little bit on a commenter (who is better at it than I)'s recommendation. The meaning should remain essentially the same, but with the French version smoother in its own language. The new resulting translation is very similar:
> 
> "I went into the garden of God / I will share with you the secret / The God that you believe is not to know; / There is no redemption where he remained"
> 
> I've also gotten rid of my previous 'thee's and such after I learned I had mixed up the corresponding meanings backwards. (Whoops.) Instead I kept it continuous and added a clarifying remark following. Hopefully it reads with the same effect! Thank [atheartagentleman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman) for this more accurate version. (:


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course the long chapter is immediately followed by a short chapter. Ah well.

Enjolras and Grantaire awoke smeared in charcoal.

It was Enjolras who awoke first; he alit from the unconsciousness of vague powder-black scratches with the last arc that brought to life his eyes. It was these that would commandeer his image as it carefully awakened on the page, before the carved curve of his chin, before the gently tossed waves of his hair. His eyes were the darkest part of the image - the rim, the shadow, the unforgiving scimitar lashes - and the lightest - the reflected gleam, the fervor, the shine on his lower lid. 

With that arc the eyes awoke, and with layers of short curves awoke the brow, and with the careful scritch-scratch mountain peak line awoke his straight and unbroken nose. With soft caresses of the flat side of the charcoal stick awoke his lips; wisps awoke his hair, heavy downward strokes his neck. Light stiff single lines awoke his collar, and scrawled suggestions of lines and shapes eventually awoke the tailored cloth of his figure. His shadow awoke the entirety of him, once the charcoal dust shaded his back, and with the shadow awoke the light. 

Twas Enjolras awoken in a drawing, and it wasn’t until after the last scratch (the corner of his heeled boot, as chance would have it) that Grantaire at last awoke as well from his trance.

It was the trunk in the corner of the room, turned on its side for height, that served as Grantaire’s chair, and upon it he had perched, looking all the world like a crow or vulture; his shoulders hunched forward, back the rocky wall of a cave, his brow, on this occasion, as deep as his subjects and all the darker. On occasion he lifted his bottle to his lips unconsciously - not the gulp of a man hiding in drink, but one feeding a salty-lipped thirst. His hand lifted thrice as often bottle-less, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow or scratching his temple, or otherwise dragging across his skin in concentration. The result was that it was difficult to tell which black on him was beard and which charcoal dust. He was dirty and effectively soot-stained, but he had never seemed so still with purpose, never looked so focused. It was a grime that better suited him, Enjolras thought, than the semitransparent purple mottles of drunkenness. The stains of his artwork seemed to decorate and define him.

The real Enjolras, the one not on his page, had been more awake than either two the entire time. (He wasn’t sure how much time that had actually been. Twenty minutes? An hour? Three?) He had watched Grantaire as Grantaire had watched him, had probably shifted a lot; his gaze had drifted, he had grown bored. But every few minutes his glance could only draw back to Grantaire. Despite the inherent inaccuracy of it, his eyes seemed to possess the inexplicable feeling that Grantaire was the stillest thing in the room; thus, like he were a whirlpool or a black hole, they were called back to him with constancy.

Nevertheless, his eyes and back were both tired when Grantaire, with a startlingly sudden movement, at last straightened and stood. 

“Done?” he asked. 

Grantaire stretched before answering, twisting himself heartily to result loud snapping cracks from his spine. “Aaah,” he breathed with a satisfied expression, rolling back his shoulders and tugging at the red makeshift bandage on his hand to rub off some of the charcoal dust. “Yes, I should think so.”

And he stepped forward to show Enjolras the drawing.

Enjolras, standing against the shoulder of Grantaire now to look down upon his portrait, did not usually, if ever, consider his appearance. His curls were generally untamed, his reflection ungazed upon, mirrors ignored, boots never taken to a shiner, buttons repaired meticulously for the sake only of scrupulousness, not for the sake of image. Here, perhaps, was indeed the longest time he had ever spent with his eyes upon his own visage. Though he was not vain, he was, in a way, struck. 

The portrait was utterly simple. It was neither abstract nor gestural, neither elaborate nor caricaturistic. It was an exact, but not strict, study; his hands loosely folded on one knee, the other out (foot propped on the lower rung of the stool), a relatively straight back with a slight curve in the shoulders, head just a fraction from symmetrically straight forward, gaze resolutely fixed through the paper and directly upon the viewer. He had not included the wrapped flag cresting his shoulder, nor the eight poppy blossoms dotting his shirtfront. In the image, his sash was still on, his vest hanging open carelessly, but his tie still neat, jacket untorn. His boots were neither agleam with polish nor caked with mud. 

Enjolras remarked upon this; Grantaire replied simply:

“I drew you alive. I possess not the ability to ever see you as anything but.”

Enjolras couldn’t quite pin down what about the image struck him. It was not exceptional enough to be hung in a museum, not wild enough to inspire awe or mystery. It did not carry any hidden message or symbolism, nor was there any particular emotion but “seeing.” It was not ‘Enjolras as the Leader of a Revolution,’ nor ‘Enjolras as an Angel,’ nor ‘Enjolras as a Young Man.’ Not ‘Enjolras at Rest’ or ‘Enjolras in the Role of Apollo’ or ‘Enjolras the Philosopher.’ It was simply Enjolras. 

It was not the best or most moving piece of art Enjolras had seen. It might not really fall in the realm of ‘fine art’ at all. 

And yet, he thought it was inexorably and certainly the most favorite artwork in his lifetime. 

“Well?” asked Grantaire. Enjolras looked up at him; he had an unlit twisted cigarette between his lips. 

“What?”

Grantaire gestured towards the drawing. “What do you think?” He had in his hand matches, and struck one to light his cigarette. 

“I like it very much,” said Enjolras. 

Grantaire inhaled, then blew out a soft stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “I kinda do too,” he said, leaning over to glance at the paper again. “It’s not bad, really. Nothing special.”

In comparison to his other work, he was quite right. Yet, Enjolras could not help but feel a compulsion against letting the drawing go. “Will it be left here?”

“Ehh...” Grantaire tipped his head back, basking in his own wreath of smoke, like a silver tangled corona. “Best take it with. Will you fold it? You’re neater than me. Into thirds, please, and seconds the other way. A nice square.”

Enjolras hesitated, then pressed the drawing to a shred of empty space on the wall, creasing it with sharp lines straight across, and folded it carefully, cautious to not smudge the charcoal. When it was of suitable size and shape, he handed the paper to Grantaire, who tucked it in the cover of some small book he had produced from wherever. In the binding, he also slid a graphite pencil. Enjolras gathered he must indeed draw more than he said, for him to consider a drawing-book and pencil an integral accessory to their journey. He was glad they had stopped here.

“Why do you not share your work?” asked Enjolras a minute later, staring at a painting of some streetwoman with her head thrown back in ecstasy, neck ravaged by some pompous dirty hat. Though Grantaire was unambitious, he was also clearly talented. Enjolras had difficulty comprehending the time and material that went into producing all these paintings, only to lay around untouched and in squalor. 

“Because it will not sell,” said Grantaire. “Nobody wants to look at ugly things, and nothing I paint is beautiful.”

It was true, Enjolras had to admit. His art was not beautiful; but it was vivid and captivating. He shook his head. “There is some sort of redemption in your squalor,” he said. “I don’t know what it is, but there is something worth looking at there.”

Grantaire seemed amused. “Even to you, he who looks only to the heavens?” he teased. 

Enjolras offered a faint almost-smile. “I appreciate your work, although I do not understand it. It seems important, as looking to the poverty-stricken and beaten is important to those who seek equality.”

“My work does not seek equality,” scoffs Grantaire. 

“No,” said Enjolras. “But it portrays it.”

He wasn’t sure where the words had come from, but Grantaire appeared suddenly and inordinately pleased. “Quite right,” he said, dropping the stub of his cigarette and smashing it underneath his boot. “Everyone is equally deplorable.”

“I can see that,” said Enjolras sarcastically. (Yet he did not hate the pictures.) 

“Well, I’m ready,” said Grantaire at last. Thrown over his shoulder was a rucksack clinking with bottles, probably, and underneath which was folded and tied a blanket. 

“Wait,” said Enjolras. Despite their current state of peace, he was still determined to explore to the furthest end. If this was death, he _would_ speak to God, or whomever lay here, and demand answers. “We should try the other doors, while we’re in the building.”

“What other doors?” said Grantaire with an undefinable tone to his voice. Enjolras looked over to him at the entrance to the room. Outside, their surroundings had changed already. 

He stepped over to the other, gaze adjoining his. 

Outside was no longer a river, nor a path through the woods, nor a dirt road along a meadow. What he saw in front of him was none other than rocks. Rocks, piled high and steeply, and which soiled the face of what was unmistakably a large hill or mountain. The sky was a cool gray-white, and whipping down from the peak were songs of wind, the bladed ends of which cut his cheek and stole the wet from his lips. 

“Oh,” said he.

Grantaire did not answer, looking only unhappy and solemn. 

After a moment’s pause, Enjolras retreated back into the bedroom. He picked up the three canvases that portrayed the Amis, returned to Grantaire, and thrust them in his hands.

Grantaire stared at him. “I can’t bring these,” he said. “My hands are a bit full, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Put them in your knapsack,” said Enjolras. “They’re small; they’ll fit. And I’ll carry...” 

He looked around, glance bouncing from sordid belongings to sordid belongings. Grantaire looked unamused. 

“...an extra coat for you,” pronounced Enjolras at last, lifting what looked to be the most solid clothing item Grantaire owned. 

“An extra coat,” repeated Grantaire.

“It looks cold out there,” said Enjolras seriously. “This will be needed.”

This was apparently a logic Grantaire could not (or did not desire to) refute, and so with a sigh he swung the sack down from his shoulder, balanced it awkwardly against the wall, and shoved inside it the three canvases, all stacked together. He drew up the top again with a rough tug, slung it over again, and shifted his weight back on his cane.

“You happy now?” he said.

“Very,” assented Enjolras, and with Grantaire’s gray winter coat over his shoulders, he pushed the door open and marched righteously through. 

“Why do you want those, anyway?” Grantaire allowed Enjolras to lead the way, leaning back against the wall as the less burdened man began seeking an easy path amongst the unfriendly boulders. 

“Because our friends are dead too,” grunted Enjolras, climbing a particularly large and dusty rock, “and I fully intend to find them here, and when I do, I think they would appreciate your work.”

“Well isn’t that charming,” crooned Grantaire, in that half sort of tune that always declared to the listener with no uncertainty that he thought he was quite stupid. 

Ignoring him, Enjolras continued his ascent, boots as feeler antennae to sort out the safe ground, hands fondling pebbles and stones to find wherever might be best to grip. This slow but determined progress went on for quite a while, until he had managed to mountain-goat-maneuver to a height of at least ten yards above where he had started. At this point, he remembered to look down to Grantaire, who had not moved from where he stood.

“Ah, noticed, have you?” he said calmly. 

Enjolras only stared. 

“You stupid twat.” His tone was conversational, but belied by tensely crossed arms and averted sullen eyes. “I can’t _climb_.”

The wind whipped a wisp of golden hair into Enjolras’ eye; he winced and brushed it out. “Oh,” he said for the second time. 

“Yeah,” said Grantaire.

There was a moment of grim silence. Enjolras would and could not stop now; however, they had gotten this far and neither would he even for a second entertain the idea of leaving Grantaire behind. It seemed that this stretch of the journey did not intend to let them pass in peace. 

He sat down on the boulder and asked Grantaire if he had any pipe with those cigarettes. 

“Maybe,” mumbled he, but consented to rummage in his satchel and dig out from the bottom a small pipe, wooden and curved. He tossed it up to Enjolras with a matchbox; the latter caught both easily. 

“There won’t be much in there,” he warned. “I don’t use pipes much.”

“Neither do I,” said Enjolras, yet it was he who struck up the match and set alight the tobacco in the bowl, and who brought it to his lips in furrow-browed concentration. Grantaire watched him pensively, another frail and twisted cigarette in his lips, fiddling, this one not alight, probably just a ritual comfort. 

“It would be nice if there were horses in the afterlife,” he muttered. “Or mules.”

“You did call me an ass,” piped in Grantaire helpfully. “Though I imagine I’m a bit of a crippled one.”

“Yes, and me a phoenix, but you don’t see me bursting into flames and flapping you up the mountain from ashes, do you,” snapped Enjolras.

“For god’s sake,” said Grantaire, and spat out his cigarette with disgust. “Who’s the disadvantaged one here?” 

“And who’s the burden?” retorted he.

There was a whip of cold that couldn’t have been the wind, and a silence beneath the whistling air. 

“Forgive me,” said Grantaire slowly, stepping from wall upon which he leaned in order to profess, as seemed trademark for his moments of scorn, a mocking curtsey. “I should have tried harder to get shot in a more honorable place, like your most utterly _Republican_ self.” The descriptor was a verbal caress, honeyed with the revolted taste of an insult. 

“You needn’t,” (and Enjolras had gritted teeth and puffed carp cheeks when he spoke) “have died at all.”

“Of course I did,” said Grantaire, and this was not the answer Enjolras had been expecting at all. The crutched individual seemed to have lit some moonshine in his eyes; the beginnings of his teeth were visible. “I hadn’t wanted to live in the world while you all were there; what on Earth could possess you to think I would want to live there alone?”

“If you hated it so much, why did you go on living at all?” Enjolras only realized he was still seething after he had already said it, despite the moment of unangered surprise at Grantaire’s brief almost devotion. 

“Ah, I am a coward,” said he, showing no sign of resentment now. The answer was cavalier; Enjolras frowned. He wanted to protest, instinctively; he didn’t know how. He wasn’t sure the other was wrong. 

He took a disgruntled drag of smoke. 

There was a pause, and this time Grantaire really did seem hesitant and sincere; if they were goats at the base of this mountain, Grantaire was the baby one, capricorn-horned and unbalanced legs and an embarrassed bleat in his eyes. “I really don’t know how to get up there,” he said softly. “If my leg were just hurt I could do it. As it is, it won’t let me balance properly.”

“I’ll have to carry you,” said Enjolras, which had been the first and obvious solution the entire time, but neither had wished to examine it. It was demeaning and uncomfortable and cumbersome; yet, it was true, there was not another way. 

Because of the nature and steepness of the climb, there was no way Grantaire could be in front of him. Were they walking a path he might have supported him at his side, but that was not the case either. Thus, it only remained that Grantaire would somehow have to be carried upon Enjolras’ back. How to do that was the problem. 

Although Enjolras was taller than Grantaire, the latter was considerably heavier. They debated him sitting upon his shoulders, clinging with all limbs like a monkey, being slung over him - this one had actually occurred before, on some occasion when a drunk and unconscious Grantaire had had to be retrieved by him for some reason or another. It was Grantaire, at last, who came up with the idea of using the flag as a sling. It would, he pointed out, both balance the strain and not require reliance on the withstanding clutches of limbs. (Besides which, as they both thought quietly, it was by far the most dignified of their options.) 

Therefore, they managed to knot a terrible and probably wildly ineffective semblance of a person-sized carrying swing; “The cripple’s equivalent of a swaddle,” pronounced Grantaire of it happily. This was, in an extremely ridiculous manner, hooked on Enjolras’ back like a knapsack - the real version of which, Grantaire was now wearing on his stomach, for practicality reasons. Enjolras leaned forward to begin attaching his grip to the rock he would need to climb first. In this way he was readily affixed in the angle at which he would mostly ascend the mountain. Thus positioned, Grantaire, struggling to push himself up with the flagpole-end, hoisted his ass into the red fabric sheet, which creaked and threatened to rip. 

Enjolras wobbled briefly; the weight was indeed a lot for him, who was slender as a swan. Grantaire leaned his back against Enjolras’ own in an attempt to very slightly restore the balance in his favor. Though it was clear that this would be infinitely more difficult than they had made themselves pretend they believed, and the heaviness of a man upon his spine was already nearly impossible to lift, Enjolras nevertheless propelled his calf to stretch in a meaningful manner enough to lift him towards the next rock. 

Thus, so burdened and awkward and altogether unlikely, the two slowly, slowly, like a double-ended snail, began to climb the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I would give to see someone attempt to draw THAT. 
> 
> Nevertheless I just wanted to say thank you for all the kind words and praise; and I hope you enjoyed the chapter despite its briefness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me, dear lord.
> 
> (Also: you may attribute any French I have employed accurately *crosses fingers* to the lovely [atheartagentleman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/profile), who again lended their magnificent assistance to my lack of knowledge of the French language. Any inaccuracies are my own via misinterpretation.)
> 
> ((Second aside: though the word count just exceeds the average chapter length for this fic, I am aware it might read a bit shorter because of the excess dialogue. Please forgive me any upset in pacing you experience because of this! This chapter was a hard time coming.))

Grantaire was a barely tolerable traveling companion, Enjolras found.

Perhaps because of the constriction of vocal cords when being effectively carried in a sack, or perhaps because he was simply tired of it, Grantaire did not sing this while around. (This was appreciated. Though he was lovely to listen to, Enjolras found no pleasure in chanteys and would have liked them far less so close to his ear.) 

Instead, he had resorted to verbal games. For whatever reason, what had started out as a mildly irritating stream of endless chatter had evolved into a somewhat morbid back-and-forth that Grantaire pronounced “ _J'ai jamais_ ,” or a game of never-have-I-ever. 

“It’s a drinking game,” he admitted after Enjolras’ confused pressing, but rushed to reassure him: “It’s for anything, though, you can alter it.”

“I don’t see the point in this,” muttered the climber. 

“The point is,” said Grantaire, “that we’re dead and there’s a thousand things we haven’t done and shall never do again; therefore, we might as well make a game out of it. Let’s find out how we differ and what we share in terms of lack and life experience.”

“Well gee, that sounds fun,” said Enjolras sarcastically.

“Precisely!” he responded with undeterred glee. “And the punishment will be... Well, not drinking, I’m too good at it and you don’t like it.”

“Why does there have to be a punishment?”

“Because that’s the point. It’s not a game if there’s no consequence to failure.” Grantaire leaned his head back against Enjolras’, knocking against his skull lightly. “Hmm... too cumbersome to strip...”

“A stripping game?” Enjolras was aghast. 

“I just said it’s too cumbersome, didn’t I?” said Grantaire dismissively, as if it had been perfectly ordinary to suggest. “All right, there’s really only one thing left, since distribution of goods is rather already fixed.”

“And what’s that?” asked Enjolras, sounding as though he dreaded the answer.

“Questions and Commands,” said Grantaire. “Every time you take a strike - that is, have a never - you must mark it down, and when we camp, the marks will be turns in Questions and Commands. As many marks you have is as many you must do.”

“Isn’t there a less complicated way of entertaining yourself?” bemoaned Enjolras. “Like quietly daydreaming or watching the scenery?”

“What scenery?”

He couldn’t begrudge him the point, as much as he wished. 

Ah, fine. Perhaps it would take his mind off of his scraped up hands and aching feet. The mountain had some near-flat patches, where he could walk almost normally, but to navigate in a manner that increased their ascension, each narrow stretch of walking involved abrupt shifts of boulders to climb and rock piles to surmount. “Will you promise me your ‘questions and commands’ game will not exceed the boundaries of reason?”

“Of course, m’lord,” said the other, and Enjolras could hear the mocking bow-curtsey in his tone of voice. 

“Go on then,” said he, with a sigh. “How do you play this verbal game?”

“The first person says something they’ve never done,” said Grantaire. “The other person or persons must, if they have done that thing, take a drink. Or, in this case, make a mark. Then they switch turns.”

“What are we to mark with?”

“I’ll do it,” said he, extracting the book he had taken from his home. “I’ll just make two columns. Tell me when to mark you or when to pass. You have to be honest, you know. That’s the point of the game.”

“And what of you?” he shot back.

“I’ll be honest,” said Grantaire. “I’ll even say my marks aloud when I write them. It’ll be fun - I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” said Enjolras, but he had never played a ‘party’ game before, and even if this one was rather designed to remind them of the permanence of death, he admittedly felt a tinge of morbid curiosity. “Who is the first turn?”

“I’ll let you go,” said Grantaire. “That should be easy.”

Enjolras thought, frowning, as he used Grantaire’s flagpole-stick to help him traverse a particularly finicky crevice. “I haven't ever... climbed a rock,” he said, it being the most immediately relevant thing he could think of.

“You have to say, ‘ _J'ai jamais_ ,’” chastised Grantaire.

“ _J'ai jamais_ climbed a rock,” repeated Enjolras sourly. 

“Well I have,” said Grantaire. “Mark for me.” And he scratched a tally in his book’s first empty page. 

“Your turn.”

“ _J'ai jamais_... had a dog.”

Enjolras frowned. His family had owned hounds.

“Mark,” he said shortly. 

“Aha!” said Grantaire.

Enjolras ignored him. “ _J'ai jamais_ blacked out drunk.”

“Well that’s just because you’re no fun,” taunted the man at his back. “Mark for me.”

“Passing out is unseemly, not fun.”

“Well, I’m unseemly regardless, so I might as well have fun being so. _J'ai jamais_ been called beautiful; and I accept it just fine.”

“... you already know what to mark for that.” Enjolras remained stiff and stout.

“I quite do,” agreed Grantaire smugly. “Your turn.”

“ _J'ai jamais_ drunken absinthe.”

“Are all your ‘ _jamais_ ’es going to turn into drinking? You’re taking the easy way out, and that’s no fun. I could list a thousand women I’d never been admired by which you have, but that wouldn’t be a very good game, now would it.”

“Are you marking it?”

“Of course I’m marking it.”

Enjolras could feel that he was telling the truth by his elbow jostling his shoulder as he fumbled with the pen. Considering the drunkard’s words, his frown deepened. 

“It’s your turn,” he said.

“ _J'ai jamais_... been propositioned by a sober woman.”

“Not even a prostitute?” asked Enjolras, surprised. 

“Prostitutes are a different kind of sober,” said he. 

Enjolras could not deny the truth of that. “Fine, mark me,” he said. 

“I knew it,” said Grantaire. “And you turned them down? Madness, I say! A good woman is like a fine wine.”

“And how do you know that it was a good woman?” said Enjolras.

“Because you wouldn’t have noticed the proposition of an unfit woman at all,” said Grantaire wisely. 

Yet again he was cursed by the keen observation of a wine-hazed fool. “ _J'ai jamais_ been propositioned by a man,” he snapped, eager to move the subject to a place where no stories could be involved.

Grantaire sighed, though Enjolras could hear a smirk in it. “Alas, another mark.”

To keep himself from stuttering, Enjolras bit his tongue. “Really?” he asked carefully, after he was sure his voice would be steady. 

“Yes,” said Grantaire simply. 

“And have you... accepted such propositions?”

“ _J'ai jamais_ turned such a proposition down.”

Enjolras wasn’t sure how to think upon this. The Bible was not his token text of philosophy; nevertheless, even amongst the Amis, such pursuits and relations weren’t exactly considered scrupulous. Jehan promoted free love and association - perhaps he would include such attitudes with it, but none of the others would have ever discussed such a thing. Besides which it was widely assumed that they all (besides he, if they knew anything) were interested in women. Including Grantaire. 

Enjolras had not considered that, lacking in the looks to attract (“sober,” as he qualified) women, Grantaire would have sought sexual gratification elsewhere. Prostitutes, sure, but that was another manner. 

Slightly disconcerted and failing, for once, to recognize an immediate and ‘right’ opinion, Enjolras kept his tongue. “ _J'ai jamais_... flown a kite,” said he softly, changing the subject.

“You forgot to say whether you’d be marked,” commented Grantaire. 

Oh. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had such a proposition to reject.”

Grantaire snorted, which caught him off guard. “You most certainly have,” he said, sounding offended.

Enjolras could only blink and attempt to glance back at him over his shoulder queryingly - though this was largely unsuccessful, the other man clearly understood, for he declared:

“I have certainly propositioned you more than once, while drunk, of course.”

Ah. Had he? Enjolras had the distinct and somewhat guilting impression that he would not have taken Grantaire seriously. Although - that was not too much of a crime; for Grantaire was rarely serious. He pointed this out, saying, “Doubtfully with any such intent, though.”

“Does it matter?” retorted he, with a note of forlornness that struck out of place with his tone. 

For the sake of moving on, he gave in. “I suppose not. Clearly such nonsense was rejected and thus having turned it down, I earn a mark.”

“Very good,” pronounced Grantaire, seeming satisfied. “Now, what was it you had said preemptively?”

“That I’ve never flown a kite, I think.”

“Surely you jest? A privileged child such as yourself must have been blessed with all leisures?”

“A privileged child such as myself was blessed with individuals to partake in leisures for me,” said Enjolras shortly, wondering why this game was considered fun. It seemed like something Courfeyrac would play, or Bahorel; perhaps Jehan, in amicable company. But with Grantaire it was only confrontational. (Some voice resembling one of the above pitched in from the back of his head - was it really Grantaire being confrontational, or himself?)

“I can’t picture that seriously,” said Grantaire. “Nevertheless, I find myself having to give a pass - neither have I, thinking upon it, and thereby no mark for me.”

“Really?” inquired Enjolras before he could stop himself. Kite-flying seemed like an exercise in frivolousness, something which Grantaire was well-ordained in. “I would have considered you an avid pursuer of idle sport.”

“I am an avid pursuer of sports that do not require the purchase of a kite and string,” corrected Grantaire. “Thus I rather box, or dance, or fight singlestick.”

“Ah.” 

“Anyhow, we continue. _J'ai jamais_... killed a mouse.”

“Nor I,” said Enjolras, shaking his head.

“Really? I’d have thought you would be quite the judge, jury, and executioner to any rodent that dare invade your kitchen.”

“I never have - “ Enjolras stopped short, then corrected himself. “ _J'ai jamais_ had my own kitchen.”

“Well then,” said Grantaire. “No mark for you or me that time. And _j’ai jamais_ been up such a long-winding godforsaken mountain, Jesus. How long is this path, anyhow? When’s the next memory? I’m bored.”

“And I’ve just earned another free pass,” reminded Enjolras. “Having never been up such a ‘godforsaken’ mountain myself. Keep mind that I’m the one carrying you, by the way. And if you’re bored, why are you ‘ _jamais_ ’ing about mundane things like mice?” 

“Because I’m supposed to say things I think you’ve done, and that’s hard, what with you being such a prude,” he complained. 

“Wasn’t there a point to this game?”

“To remind us of all the shit we’ll never get to do ever again, what with being dead,” he said rather cheerfully. “Even all the stuff we meant to or wanted to.”

“Well?”

“Well, it’s your turn, anyway.”

“Fine. Something I’ve meant to do? _J'ai jamais_ thanked my comrades for their friendship.”

There was a pause.

“... Sorry. I have.”

Enjolras immediately felt worse. Of course Grantaire, deplorable, useless, contrary Grantaire, Grantaire who cared for nothing... nothing but his friends - of course he had. (For even if the Amis did not necessarily consider him amongst their peers, they were Grantaire’s only and most admired comrades; even he knew that.) Whereas he, Enjolras, leader of the revolution, who had brought them all together, had never bothered to stop and profess his gratitude. Cold Enjolras, stone Enjolras. Marble lover of liberty, he was called.

“Your turn,” he said. 

“I didn't ever learned to swim,” said Grantaire. 

“‘ _J'ai jamais_ learned to swim,’” corrected Enjolras absentmindedly, curious at this confession. “In fact, neither have I.”

“My father was a sailor,” said Grantaire. “You’d think I’d be able to swim.”

“Mine was a Royalist,” said Enjolras, attempting a half-shrug with little success, due to the weight on his shoulder. “You’d think I’d be able to love a king.”

“I don’t think you able to love at all,” commented Grantaire. 

“My love is reserved for my country,” said he. 

“Your country only lets you down,” started Grantaire, but Enjolras stopped him.

“I’m letting you down,” he said, and at once stopped and lowered himself upon a boulder along the mountain’s face. 

Grantaire carefully hoist-scooted himself to some manner of independent weight, leaning heavily on his cane once he had hold of it again. “We are stopping mid way again? It can’t have been that long we’ve been talking.”

“I doubt it has been,” agreed Enjolras. “But it has been excessively long to be climbing.” He stood again briefly to stretch, striding a few paces away and then back purposefully. 

“Fair enough,” consented Grantaire. He retrieved from his bag a pale bottle and uncorked it, bringing it to his lips and swallowing an astonishing number of long draughts in a row, as though he’d been thirsting for it painfully all the while. 

Enjolras ignored this, instead laying out whatever (meager) items of cloth might serve as padding upon the hard stone of the mountain. He lowered to the ground and attempted to lie out on his square in as comfortable a manner as he could manage - it didn’t do much. 

“Rest?” said Grantaire. 

“Yes,” confirmed Enjolras. “The digging of weight against my shoulders may not be physically painful here, but the slow pace it drags me to is painful to my patience. Rest may refresh me.”

Grantaire eyed him, skeptically taking in the fairly useless mattress he had fashioned.

“I’d recommend a better swaddle,” said he, gesturing to the rolled up Republican flag. 

Enjolras shook his head. “I won’t keep it for myself,” he said. 

“Then let me have some; I will consent to join you in rest, if we can still play our game for a little while longer in the mean while.”

Enjolras sighed. “I agree,” he said. With some maneuvering, mostly on his part due to Grantaire’s injury, they combined their softest belongings into the best imitation of a nest that could be summoned up with such resources; wrapping himself in the edge of the red flag-blanket, Grantaire shifted to his side, facing away from Enjolras. 

“It’s your turn,” he said. 

Perhaps it was the physical closeness that dissuaded them from pursuit of questions more steeped in intimacy; whatever the reason, the continuation of the game proved far milder than some of the previous altercations. 

To a point, their traded murmurings, volume fading as the mood seemed to shift towards night (belying the static silver of their sky), acquired something of a bittersweet tone; favoring childhood idolatries and silly recognitions, Enjolras admitted having never pet a cat, Grantaire that he had never been on the mast of a ship, which he had apparently always pictured himself residing upon as a youth. 

It was in this vein that marks were traded and passed upon, neither particularly enthusiastic nor comfortable, yet neither so distasteful so as to drop the talking, it having found itself a temporary place in their current habit. Enjolras’ very last confession before succumbing to slumber was the following:

“ _J'ai jamais_ fallen asleep beside another.”

Grantaire, who remained awake for perhaps a minute and a half longer, idly thumbing the mouth of a bottle next to him, echoed his last refrain thus:

“ _J'ai jamais_ been able to fall sleep alone.”

So named by each, sleep at last was what found them.

* * *

Enjolras and Grantaire did not resume the game when they were both awake and ready again. 

The mark-page Grantaire held to keep score was folded up neatly and tucked back into his book; belongings redistributed, flag folded properly for once, to be carried by Grantaire this time rather than Enjolras. 

They did not mention the game, nor did they decide winners or losers, or what their corresponding tallies would translate to in questions or commands. Awake and clearheaded; they were tired in spirit. The gray landscape had dulled them. No denouncing graffiti kicked forward spite, no destination in view spurred hope or anticipation. Their motivation lay solely fueled by monotony, and the desire to break free from thus. 

In some tacit agreement, they ignored the impracticality of suiting the pace to the leg of a cripple; too impoverished of care to redevise their solution, Grantaire once again took up cane and, with disproportionate struggle, followed along behind Enjolras with his rarely-useful wood and lame leg dragging. Every few steps he would be forced to reach calloused and chalky hands to Enjolras’; every several paces, would need to be lifted by the underarms, a feat which was accomplished with difficulty and ensuing lack of grace. 

Nevertheless, for all their trouble, they slowly, very slowly, slowly than their previous stretch, breached further distance in their path up the mountain. In this manner, amidst a silence that stifled them more greatly than the wind, the two companions somehow managed, after long hours, to reach the summit of their hill.

At the bottom of the slope before them lay, in a displacement which was extremely odd visually, an entire university. 

The _Collège Royal_ , as it was currently named, was instantly recognizable to both (although Grantaire himself had not been an attendee of the college at the time of his death). In a very strange and nearly distasteful picture, the buildings of education stood alone, barely an echo of the streets of Paris surrounding it. In high contrast to the previous memory locations, this one was clearly buzzing with people; the size of lizards from this height, it was nevertheless obvious that the school was heavily occupied.

Breathless, Enjolras took a step forward. 

“Do you think they can see us?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Are they real?”

“They may be as your father was,” reminded Grantaire, putting a hand upon the taller’s shoulder. Enjolras stiffened at the recollection of his parent’s eerie presence in the recital-hall memory. It was true, however; that ghost had been cognizant only of Enjolras in the real time of the memory, not of Enjolras now (who, in irony, was the actual ghost). It made sense that the occupants of this space would only be more occupants from the original time and place of the memory; yet, it was painful to stifle his hope like hot coals behind the sternum.

“It is too far away to tell,” Grantaire said gently, as though he had been reading Enjolras’ mind. “Still at the bottom of the hill. We’ve to get down there first.”

Enjolras nodded thickly. “It is queer,” he admitted with forced calm, “to see it before we reach it, for once.”

Grantaire said nothing, glancing to the side as in some private thought. 

“I hope this side is shorter,” he said at last. His hand dropped from his companion.

“And I,” agreed Enjolras. “Descending must at least be physically easier than the climb.”

“Easier to fall,” said Grantaire. “Are you sure you don’t want to just let me tumble down? I won’t hurt too much; just be rather useless bodily following. But then you can drag me places easier. Not have to put up with my moaning either.”

He was again ignored; Enjolras instead stepped back again and, from behind him, lifted his rucksack a bit so as to displace the weight of Grantaire’s burden. He nudged him forward, helping ease the latter man to his next lower step. 

“I can’t believe that after I went and died, I still am being implored to go to school,” said Grantaire wryly, using his flagpole stick to help poke around the rocks and ensure that the descent of his good leg would land on something steady. Each hobbling zig-zag across or down was attended by the stoic Enjolras, who did not seem amused at the joking commentary. 

“I knew you were not particularly stringent about attendance,” said he disapprovingly, “But I thought you could still call yourself a student.”

Grantaire shrugged uncomfortably, then sucked in a breath as a particularly round rock beneath his foot slid out from under him, a brief flail and lack of balance saved by the quick darting of Enjolras’ hands. 

“Thanks,” he said. “I actually devoted my lack of attendance to a university apart from yours, briefly.”

Enjolras shot him a curious glance, though, from the angle at which they stood, he couldn’t have seen him. 

“Being?” he inquired.

The moment between the question and answer seemed to speak of some thought before response; nevertheless, he replied in a straightforward mumble: “ _École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts_.” Another short pause, then, tacked on in a hurried manner - “Briefly. Very briefly.”

The stare of Enjolras could have burned through his own marble countenance had it been reflected through a mirror. As it was, the victim was the back of Grantaire’s own neck only; and he scratched at it with awkwardness. 

“Is that not a rather elite institution?” Enjolras interrogated shrewdly. 

“Um, I don’t know... I guess?” The hesitance in Grantaire’s voice was clearly the effect of reluctance to reveal more; without regard for this, Enjolras plunged on.

“You should have been making something of yourself,” he pressed. “Idle though you claim your work, you clearly possess the capabilities of dedication. You are disciplined in physical arts, educated enough to be argumentative, talented enough to be accepted into a prestigious school, and in what may be the greatest city of the world - why, Grantaire, why do you deny yourself these opportunities?” He seemed personally frustrated, aura splash-slashes of sizzling carmine, as though Grantaire’s failure was both a capital and personal offense.

“Well,” said Grantaire after a moment of stoic silence, “Guess it’s too late now.” And he tightened his grip around his canteen of drink.

With this unpleasant remark the conversation ceased, and they continued, amongst a dissonant air, to descend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "J'ai jamais" is the common French-version title of what we in America would call "Never Have I Ever." The game has no recorded date of invention that I could find, but it did not seem an unreasonable extrapolation to assume its existence - if not popularly, at least in the bored minds of drinkers and/or travelers. 
> 
> "Questions and Commands" is the original English name for what we know now as "Truth or Dare." This one does have recorded history so I can affirm that it did indeed exist in Enjolras and Grantaire's time. 
> 
> The Collège Royal and École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts are both real schools that existed in Paris at the time. As I couldn't find any mention in the book of specific universities for the students, I did some research to see what was around there during those years, and the Collège Royal seemed most fitting for Enjolras due to its open education system and focuses of study. It has had several names over the years (originally Collège Royal, then Collège des Trois Langues, then Collège National at the time of the Revolution if I recall correctly, Collège Imperial under Napoleon, and Collège Royal again during the Restoration) and still exists as the Collège de France, having held its current name since 1870. 
> 
> The École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts was originally the Académie de peinture et de sculpture, or the famed French Academy - but it changed names following its merger with the Académie d'architecture, which occurred before Grantaire would have attended it, in 1816. It is considered both elite and distinguished, and has been since its founding. This school was the founder of the artistic competition called the grand prix de l'Académie Royale, or the Grand Prix de Rome - the winners of which were sent to study in the city of Rome and whom most frequently, as a result of the distinguishment, went on to achieve fame. Henri Matisse, Claude Monet, Gustave Moreau, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Edgar Degas, and Eugène Delecroix are among the academy's celebrity alumni.
> 
> These are, of course, only results of meager hours of research, and as I am not personally familiar with the French education system, particularly of the time, I have no way of knowing whether these would really be the schools Enjolras and Grantaire might have attended. Take with a grain of salt!


End file.
